A Father's Love
by The-Deckers
Summary: Steve fights to survive in the wilderness while Mark searches for clues to save him & his captor's son from certain death. Ch9: Two families are reunited. STORY COMPLETE.
1. Product of the Past

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction. No profit is being made from its publication. All DM characters are property of CBS/Viacom. All other characters are property of the authors.

**Authors' note:** This story is part of an experiment in writing taken on by The Sloans' Deck Writing Group. One author wrote the story starter, and the remaining members were divided into two separate groups to pursue two different story lines. This story is Version One simply by virtue of it being finished first. Version Two will be posted when Version One is finished. One thing we at the Deck found interesting was how certain scenes were similar in each story, and yet very different. We would love to know what you think. Please, R&R.

**A Father's Love, Version One**

**Chapter One: Product of the Past**

"Dr. Sloan," Captain Jim Newman said with as much patience as he could muster. "You don't need to testify. The D.A. can get a conviction without you. Besides, even if Tucker does get off, Steve can identify them. What we need to do is find him."

Mark pressed his hands to the table to stop their trembling and he slipped his tongue between his back teeth to keep from grinding them. After several deep breaths, he finally lifted his head and looked Captain Newman in the eye.

"For the last time, Cletus Baxter doesn't care if I testify. Tucker's Public Defender told him the D.A. could get a conviction on the physical evidence alone," he explained with failing patience.

Newman said something about not being able to delay the trial, but Mark tuned him out. He was not going to compromise until he had all the information and support he needed to help him save his son.

"Baxter told me his grandson didn't commit that murder, and that if I wanted to see Steve alive again, I would find a way to prove him innocent," Mark repeated for the fifth time. "Donald just seemed to be along for the ride. He promised me they wouldn't hurt Steve and that as soon as I cleared Tucker's name, they would send him home safe and sound."

"Dr. Sloan, we have an APB out on the Baxters and their truck. Every cop in LA is looking for them. They can't get far."

"I don't care what you're doing," Mark said in a level, but disdainful, voice, "and I do think you have underestimated Cletus Baxter. I just want to review all the files on Tucker's case, so if they contact me, I can convince them that I am trying to meet their demands. I also want you to assign Cheryl to work with me on this, and I want it all within the hour or I will call my friend at the LA Times and tell the story to him. Do you understand me?"

A small vein began to pulse in Jim Newman's forehead, and a muscle in his jaw started to twitch. He knew Mark Sloan well enough to realize that while he might try to trick killers into revealing themselves, he didn't make idle threats when it came to protecting his son. He also knew that there was no way he could get Mark to back off after stupidly pointing out that Steve didn't stand a chance of being returned safely, because even if Tucker were acquitted, he could identify his kidnappers, and they would go to jail if they returned him. After a long moment, he opened his cell phone and speed-dialed the precinct.

"Detective Banks, pack up everything we have on Tucker Baxter and bring it to Dr. Sloan's beach house. It seems that after years of helping us put away criminals, the good doctor wants to start working for the defense."

Newman closed his phone and looked at Mark. The two men locked gazes for a long, tense moment, and then Newman rose from the table and showed himself out.

_Sloans' Deck_

Steve arched his back and groaned as he tried to relieve some of the strain on his shoulders, but a sharp blow to his abdomen, probably from the butt of a rifle, interrupted his efforts. He fell off the spare tire on which he was sitting. As he lay on the floor of the truck doubled over and gasping for air, a hard kick to his kidneys sent a hot surge of pain through his entire body, and he grunted in pain. With his hands cuffed behind him there was no way he could defend himself, so he decided it was best to just lie still and pretend he had passed out.

"Ya were told to sit still and be quiet," Cletus Baxter's gravelly voice grated on his ears. "So help me God, ya will learn to mind me or die tryin', boy!"

"Pa, stop it!" Donald Baxter yelled through the window in the back of the cab of the truck. "I promised the Doc we wouldn't hurt him. What good will it do Tucker if we save him just to get ourselves executed for killing a cop?"

As the truck rattled and clattered over back roads, every bump and pothole jarred Steve's aching body. The black balaclava, which was tied snugly around his neck, stank strongly of mildew and the gag in his mouth tasted of motor oil. Every gasping breath he took carried the fumes and the moldy smell into his sinuses and lungs making him feel quite ill, and he could only pray that he wouldn't vomit into the gag. Beyond the mildew and oil, he detected the odors of livestock, manure, hay, and unwashed humanity. _It would be just my luck to be kidnapped by the Beverly Hillbillies. _Steve had nothing against agricultural workers or anyone else who worked hard for a living. The problem was, the Baxter family had something against him.

Steve knew from his investigation, which had often seemed more like recording an oral history than searching for a murderer, that the Baxter clan had started out as a hard working farm family, but things changed drastically for them during the Dust Bowl of the 1930's…

_Sloans' Deck_

_At the young age of twenty-five, Horace Baxter had found himself in the position of family patriarch when his father died unexpectedly of a stroke in 1936. After five years of drought, young Horace lost the family farm to the bank. Seeing no future in the dried up, worn out dirt of the Oklahoma Panhandle, Horace had decided to move west. Fliers in every store, post office, and barbershop boasted of California's bountiful Central Valley and long growing season that allowed almost continuous cultivation of diverse crops. The advertisements claimed field hands were needed to harvest everything from potatoes and peaches to cotton and carrots. _

_First, Horace convinced the local farm supply dealer to give him twelve and a half cents on the dollar for the family's 1931 Farmall tractor and attachments, which had never plowed a field nor harvested a crop in five long, thirsty years. Next, he sold the cow, which had gone dry, and the pigs which were almost too lean to butcher because they were nearly starving like everything else from Odessa, Texas, to Holdrege, Nebraska and from central Kansas to the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. The chickens went to his older sister, Iris, and her husband, Ralph, who ran the livery in Texhoma where they'd be able to pick enough bugs out of the hay and manure in the stable to keep them laying eggs for Iris' children. Then Horace rode the family mule into Goodwell, where he traded it, and half of his cash, for a rickety old jalopy to carry them to the Promised Land of Californ-I-A._

_The family had spent a week packing for their trip west. Foodstuffs and dry goods had pride of place, then furniture, the few clothes that they owned, and one stubborn old nanny goat that was still giving a little milk for the children. On top of everything, Horace lashed the three mattresses that made the Baxters 'rich' Okies. What could not be loaded up was left behind because there was no one left within a hundred miles who could afford to buy any of it. Then Horace had climbed into the cab of the truck alongside his mother, Eunice, and his teenage wife, Zelda, and his six younger siblings had scrambled atop the mattresses where they would make sure the ropes holding the load in place stayed tight, and they had all set off for Californ-I-A never to return again._

_Sloans' Deck_

A particularly vicious bump caused Steve's already aching head to bounce off the steel truck bed and rattled his teeth. The clattering and groaning that came from the engine made him wonder if this wasn't the very truck Horace Baxter himself had driven across northern Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, up the treacherous Black Mountains and through the Mojave Desert. He knew seventy years of history should have nothing to do with Tucker Baxter's case, but he couldn't help thinking that things would have been different if his great-great-grandfather had been a luckier man. Still, the boy had a mind of his own, and he was more than just a helpless product of his family's past.

_Sloans' Deck_

_It took Horace Baxter ten weeks to get his family to Bakersfield, California, at the south end of the San Joaquin Valley. He was totally unprepared for signs reading 'OKIES GO HOME!' and 'NO JOBS HERE!' Hundreds of thousands of other bankrupt farmers had traveled west ahead of him, and the jobs that had been advertised back in Goodwell, Texhoma, and the other panhandle towns were gone. Devastated, Horace could do nothing more than build his family a cardboard and scrap metal shack in one of the many 'Okieville' shantytowns that dotted the fertile valley. On those rare occasions when he found work, his day's wage, which could be all of five and a half dollars on a very good day, would be spent on cornmeal and cabbage, and he would pray that it would feed his family until he could find another job._

_Conditions in the Okieville were deplorable. The dirt floor of the shack turned to mud when it rained, and the stench of so much humanity living so closely together could be unbearable on hot nights. The lack of running water and sanitation led to frequent outbreaks of disease, and by the end of 1936, two of Horace's younger siblings had died of dysentery and Zelda had miscarried her first child._

_A bright spot appeared in 1937 when the Farm Security Administration opened its first relief camps with one-room tin shacks and tents sitting up on wooden pallets. Horace somehow 'acquired' two dozen bushels of plums and sold them to get the money he needed to move his family into the camp. The family earned the dollar a week they needed to stay there by doing maintenance chores around camp. It was no paradise, but with hot showers, flush toilets, and breakfast for the children at a penny a day, it was the best thing they'd seen since they'd left Oklahoma. Sometimes, when they worked in the camp, the family was paid in flour and lard, which would be used to make biscuits for dinner._

_Sloans' Deck_

The truck hit another bump, and Steve woke up, wondering how he had fallen asleep. He realized he was hungry when his stomach growled so loudly that he tensed in preparation for another beating from Cletus. He had no idea how long he had been lying in the bed of the truck, but his whole right side was numb. As the truck bounced along, he began to hurt more and more. What wasn't numb ached. His head was throbbing and his teeth rattled with every pothole and lump in the road. His neck and shoulders were stiff, and his wrists were sore where they had been handcuffed for no telling how long. Finally, he decided he was hurting enough to change his position and risk further abuse for moving, but he wasn't going to be a fool about it. He would try to make it look like he was simply moving in his sleep.

Steve waited patiently for another bump in the road, and it wasn't long in coming. The truck felt like it was running over a giant washboard. When it bounced, he rolled over onto his stomach and waited to get hit. When no blows or kicks rained down on him, he figured his small deception had been successful, and if not for the gag in his mouth, he would have smiled.

_Sloans' Deck_

_In October, Zelda gave birth to a baby boy, Avery, who was always colicky and difficult and who grew up to be a mean and difficult man who shunned his fellows and lived in a one-room squatter's cabin in the wilderness east of the valley. Avery Baxter's wife, Elyse, was ill tempered and hardheaded, more than a match for her husband. She gave birth to Cletus Baxter on the dirt floor of the cabin because her husband didn't want her bloodying the sheets on their bed. As the eldest of four children, Cletus was beaten often as he was growing up, sometimes for things he'd done wrong, sometimes for things he hadn't done right, and sometimes just for the hell of it. His younger brothers and sister didn't escape their parents' wrath either, and they escaped to the valley as soon as they were old enough to work._

_Unlike his brothers and sister, Cletus preferred the solitude of the wilderness. He also felt some sense of obligation to his parents, and stayed on at the cabin caring for them when they became too old and ill to care for themselves. He had married young, and his wife, unable to tolerate the abuse she got from her husband and in-laws, abandoned him when their son Donald was less than a year old. Cletus raised Donald in much the same way he, himself, had been brought up, but times had changed, and parents could no longer beat their children for every little thing. In 1976, Donald's first grade teacher referred him to the school psychologist, and within a week, the youngster had been removed from his father's care._

_Sloans' Deck_

Steve almost shook his head in wonder, but he remembered Cletus' warning just in time and wryly thought that he would indeed 'mind' the old man, if only to avoid another beating. How a father could abuse his children, and how an abused child could allow the cycle to continue with his own offspring was beyond him. It was a shame that foster care hadn't been the salvation Donald had needed. If the experience had been better for Donald, maybe Tucker Baxter wouldn't be in trouble now.

_Sloans' Deck_

_For Donald Baxter, foster care had been a nightmare of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse. In his first four years in the system, he was placed in six different foster homes. His complaints weren't believed, and by the time he was ten, Donald had been labeled a troublemaker and a liar. As he grew up, Donald learned to fight back, and then he really earned his troublemaker reputation by beating up younger foster children. He 'aged out' of the foster care system at eighteen, and by then, he had been through five social workers and almost thirty foster homes. He'd also done some time in a group home for juvenile offenders after he had put one of his younger foster brothers in the hospital._

_Not long after his eighteenth birthday, Donald fathered a son, Tucker, to a seventeen-year-old crack addicted prostitute. The relationship didn't last long, but Donald remained a part of his son's life. Just after the little boy's second birthday, his mother had been diagnosed with AIDS, and she was dead before Tucker started school. Donald had managed an uneasy reconciliation with his father, and with support from Cletus, he took the child into his care._

_Tucker struggled academically, but under the instruction of caring teachers, he proved to be a more than willing student, and by the time he hit high school at the age of sixteen (two years behind most of his peers) he was well on his way to making something of his life. He was in the special needs program and had been scheduled for an Academic Strategies course that would teach him the study and organizational skills necessary for him to be successful in school. Until he ran afoul of the LAPD homicide division, his guidance counselor had believed that he would not only graduate high school, but also stood a decent chance of getting into college._

_Unfortunately, Tucker was subject to bouts of terrible rage, and while Donald and Cletus did their best to provide for him, they each had their own history of violence to contend with and were entirely unequipped to help the boy learn to control his temper. Tucker had a bad habit of fighting, and he had been to court four times in the last two years of middle school for assaulting his classmates. Still, he continued to work hard and managed to keep his grades up._

_Sloans' Deck_

Steve sighed tiredly as the truck continued to bump and bounce along. He thought he understood a little of what Tucker must have been going through. Growing up, he'd had tantrums like any child, but his loving mother and clever father had usually been able to help him channel his anger into something productive. By the time he was old enough to get into any real trouble, he had learned to vent his wrath in acceptable ways like running and working out. Even when he couldn't redirect his fury, he had never gone as far as Tucker had, but once he was grown and working on the police force, his temper had gotten him into hot water with his captain once or twice. He wondered how much worse things might have been for him if he hadn't grown up with two caring parents who worked hard to guide him in a positive direction. Somehow, he had a feeling that if it weren't for his mom and dad, he would have been able to identify with Tucker Baxter far more than he did already.

_Sloans' Deck_

_Not long after he started at South Gate Senior High School, Tucker became the target of a group of bullies. They very quickly found out that calling him a 'dummy' was all it took to set him off, because he was sensitive about being in the special needs program. The taunting had gotten progressively worse and Tucker had gotten into trouble repeatedly for fighting. When he was caught passing a threatening note to one of his tormentors, a boy named Rico Alonso, he was suspended for ten days, and when he came back to school, the teasing was worse than ever and had escalated to pushing in the halls and stealing his books and homework._

_Tucker's teachers knew things were headed for a major confrontation between him and the bullies, and while they did try to intervene and prevent as many altercations as possible, they simply couldn't be everywhere all the time, so problems were inevitable. Though the school was well aware of the situation between Tucker and Rico's clique, no one had any idea how serious it was until Tucker was found looming over the other boy's corpse, spattered in blood, a claw hammer from the wood shop dangling from his hand, just as Tucker had described in his letter._

_Sloans' Deck_

When the truck finally stopped, Steve nearly cried with relief. Cletus Baxter poked him with the barrel of the hunting rifle, and he struggled gamely to sit up; but with his hands still cuffed behind his back, he found it impossible. He felt the extra weight of Donald when he climbed into the bed of the truck to assist him, and couldn't help but be grateful for the steadying hand that guided him over to the tailgate and down to the ground. The gravel of a driveway crunched under his feet for a few paces, and then he carefully stepped up when Donald told him he had come to the porch stairs. The air cooled as he entered the shade of the building, and the outdoor sounds became muffled as he passed through the door.

Steve strained to hear what was going on around him as he was left to stand alone, the stinking balaclava still covering his face. A strange tinkling noise reached his ears, and he could only wonder what it was. He must have been more exhausted than he thought, because he suddenly lost his balance and had to take several staggering steps to keep from falling.

"Stand still, damn ya," Cletus Baxter growled, and Steve froze as he felt a hard, wide band encircle his left leg and heard it click shut.

Finally, the cuffs were removed, and as he tried to rub the circulation back into his wrists, the balaclava and gag were taken off as well. After several moments of squinting and blinking, Steve was able to make out some details of his surroundings. He was in a dilapidated, one-room log cabin. The bark of the old trees still showed on the walls, and the windows were just holes cut through the logs with shutters to close them against the rain. The floor was filthy and worn smooth, but the wide pale stripes of wood still contrasted with the darker lines of bark from rough-hewn sawmill slabs. Looking down at his leg, he saw an ancient iron shackle around his ankle, fastened in place with a brand new heavy-duty combination lock. A massive chain ran off of it to an iron eye in the wall. It was long enough to give him freedom to move but wouldn't let him reach the door.

As Donald Baxter stared malevolently around the dingy room, Cletus shoved a broom into Steve's hand and said, "Long as you're here, you're gonna make yourself useful. Ya can start by sweepin' the floor. It's been years since I've been out here, and since there's no tellin' how long it'll take your pa to figure out who killed that boy, ya might as well make the place livable."

Dumbfounded, Steve stared at Cletus for several moments, unable to believe that he was going to be held captive as a domestic servant until the Baxters saw fit to either kill him or release him. He must have stood for a moment too long, though, because before he knew it, Cletus jammed the butt of the rifle into his abdomen again, and he fell to his knees gasping for air. At least Cletus had the decency to let him get his breath before threatening him again, but this time, Steve got quickly to his feet and started sweeping the cabin floor.


	2. Lemonade & Buckshot

**Chapter Two: Lemonade & Buck Shot**

Cheryl hefted the large box, which contained the Tucker Baxter files, from the passenger seat of her departmental vehicle, bumped the door shut, and started along the shaded walkway that led to the front door of the beach house.

She had always appreciated the peace of the setting. The greenery, which was liberally placed about the property, providing privacy and beauty; the soothing sound of the waves. Combined with the good company of its occupants, she'd thought the Sloan home a perfect retreat.

However, none of those things registered today as she covered the distance in a no-nonsense manner. Today her partner was missing, and she had just been pulled off the team seeking to find him. The reason for the reassignment was the cryptic 'the good doctor wants to start working for the defense'. None of her calmly and logically stated arguments had changed Newman's mind. So she was doing her duty and reporting as ordered with files in hand.

The front door was thrown open before she could ring the bell or school her features. If Mark noticed anything amiss in her expression, it wasn't shown in his sincere, if somewhat harried welcome.

"Oh, Cheryl. I'm glad you're here." He stepped back to allow her entry. Worried blue eyes focused quickly on the box in her arms. "Is that everything you have?" he asked. Though the question seemed innocent enough, there was an anxious quality in his tone that spoke to his level of worry.

"Everything that we could get," Cheryl assured him, her irritation suddenly decreasing. She respected Mark Sloan. Despite his unorthodox methods, she had seen him assist in solving many LAPD cases. More than that, he wasn't some Hollywood dad, or well-to-do father, seeking to manipulate the police department because of his position in society. She knew how close he and his son were. Mark would never do anything to endanger Steve's life. And if he thought looking through the files was going to help Steve, she was willing to give him a little leeway.

"Why don't we put it in here?" Mark reached for the box and gestured toward the dining room table. Cheryl turned the box over into his care, and followed him toward the elegant piece of furniture. A tray containing a pitcher of some cool beverage, a plate of cookies and two glasses sat on one side of the table. Mark deposited the box in the center of the table, blocking the tray, and began to dig out the files, placing one atop the other.

Cheryl settled gingerly in one of the comfortable chairs, and placed her purse on the floor beside her. In spite of the previous mental decision with regard to leeway, the setting raised her hackles again. While other cops were working hard to find Steve, she was doing the equivalent of having tea and cookies at the beach. Hardly what she considered the best use of her time.

Mark paused in his removal of the files and looked up at her. "I know you'd rather be anywhere else but here humoring an old man," he said.

"Dr. Sloan . . . . " Cheryl started, ready to debate the statement, but then held back. There was some truth in what he said, though she would never have put it, or meant it, so harshly.

"No, no, it's all right," Mark assured her, going back to the task of removing the folders from the box. "That's the way Steve is, too. He'd rather be out there doing something. I think there's a little of that in myself as well though it's expressed differently. But when you get down to it, we have the same goal, you and I - to bring him home safely."

"I can't argue with that," Cheryl said. "Getting Steve home is the priority here."

"I was hoping," Mark continued, "that you could work with me. But if you feel that you can't, I'll understand that and ask Newman for someone else. There won't be any hard feelings. You should know though, that Steve highly respects your abilities and so do I. For that reason, I think you're the best person for the job."

Cheryl's brows rose. She hadn't been expecting to be given an out, or such a compliment. Nor was she ignorant of that fact that the good Dr. Sloan was gently manipulating her. But before she responded to the unspoken question, there was something she had to know. "Why even ask for a member of the department? Why not just request the files?"

"It's no mystery, really," Mark smiled. "It gives the appearance of an investigation into Tucker's innocence more credibility. And considering the fact that you and Steve worked the case, you know more about it than anyone."

Cheryl nodded. Those were very valid points. But the desire to take Mark up on his offer to have someone else work with him was still so very tempting. She'd had a lead that she'd intended to follow up that very day if not for Newman's phone call.

Mark's smile faded slowly away, and determination marked his features. "Detective Banks, Cletus Baxter took my son, right in front of my eyes. He insisted that Tucker Baxter did not murder Rico Alonso, and that if I wanted to see Steve home safe and sound, I'd better find some sort of way to prove Tucker's innocence."

"But what if you can't prove Tucker innocent?" Cheryl asked gently. "What if all of the evidence leads you to same conclusion that it led Steve and me to before? Remember you were the one who was going to testify for the prosecution about the violent episode he had at the hospital when we brought him there after we arrested him."

"My testimony was never important to the case," Mark dismissed the point. "I was just one more thing to add to a pile of other facts which were working against Tucker. It really doesn't matter where the evidence leads me. I intend to follow every clue and do everything I can to get familiar with this case. Whatever it takes to show Cletus Baxter that I'm at least trying to do what he's asked. At most, we might find something, at the least, we buy the department a little time to find Steve."

For a moment, Cheryl saw something of her partner in Mark's tense body language. She knew that she had to help him in this quest. She'd have to help him do this his way - Steve would want that. She sighed, then reached across the table and removed one of the file folders. "Hopefully, we won't have to buy too much time," she said as she flipped quickly through the folder and found what she was looking for -- a faded Polaroid of Donald, Cletus and Tucker. The younger Baxter was hardly over five. They were all standing in a clearing in a wooded area, dressed in ragged overalls. The older Baxter held a shotgun across his arm.

She pointed out the two older men for Mark. "As you can see, Donald and Cletus haven't changed much. We figure that they would want to hide Steve some place they felt in control. Through every difficult part of his life, Cletus always ended up back in the woods where he grew up. Based on family history, we think he has a cabin in Dinuba, out near Bakersfield. Unfortunately, it doesn't look as if the family ever really owned it, and the records are spotty. But we've been in contact with the Dinuba Police Department and the Forest Service. They're going to be starting a search for the cabin."

"That's a lot of area to cover," Mark commented.

"Yeah," Cheryl agreed. "But, the forest service does keep track of cabins able to provide shelter. And, for what it's worth, the kidnapping was hardly an elegant affair. They didn't try to hide who they were, and didn't seem to have much of a back up plan. That speaks of spur of the moment decision-making. That could work in our favor."

"True," Mark agreed. "Their methods were a little clumsy, but they were also effective." He looked off, as if reliving the morning's kidnapping.

Cheryl had tried to develop a mental picture of her own when she'd read his statement. But reading words from a page didn't compare to hearing a person's actual recitation of the events. Tone of voice and body language made for a much more vivid recreation.

"Why don't we start there," she suggested. "Tell me what happened this morning."

"Does this mean you'll be staying to help us?"

"Us?" She raised a brow. Though she really should have known that the sidekicks would be along for the ride.

Mark's smile was unrepentant. "Would you like some lemonade?" he gestured toward the tray.

Cheryl responded by taking a glass and inclining it in his direction in a silent salute.

Mark first took a sip, and then sobered as he began to tell the story. "I was in the kitchen, just finishing up breakfast when I heard the sound. . . . "

_"Doctor Sloan!" The cup clattered to the bottom of the stainless steel sink as the words reached his ears. It took a moment for him to realize that the call had come from his own driveway. Steve had only left a couple of minutes earlier._

_Worry and curiosity sent him out of the front door and down the steps. The sound of an engine running reached his ears, only increasing his concern. But he couldn't see the vehicle as the storage house effectively blocked his view of the rest of the driveway. _

_"Steve?" he called, his steps slowing as some instinct alerted him to the fact that something was not quite right. "Steve? Are you out here?"_

_An engine revved and suddenly an old blue Ford truck backed into view. "Don't move another muscle, doc!" Steve lay in the bed of the truck, half collapsed against the rear of the cab, a gag in his mouth. A grizzled looking man dressed in jeans and a pair of coveralls was sitting on the wheel well, and his rifle was pointed at the side of Steve's head. _

_Mark couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to, his shock was so great. He could only stare, searching for some sign that his son was okay. Then Steve grunted, and began to stir a bit. A relieved breath flowed through his system, and he focused his attention back on the man with the gun. _

_"What do you want? Surely we can work this out." _

_"Funny ya should ask, doc. Ya don't know me, but ya will after today. My name is Cletus Eugene Baxter, and this here," he gestured toward the truck's driver, "is my boy, Donald Baxter. Tucker Baxter is my grandson. Now, Tucker, he didn't kill that there boy at that school and any fool shoulda been able to see that. But that bag o' bones, waste of a human bein' public defender ain't even tryin'. I figure he ain't got much reason to. So, I'm here to make a deal with ya, one pa to another. If ya ever wants to see your boy alive again, you're gonna prove that Tucker didn't commit no murder. Ya get my meanin', doc?" _

_Before Mark could respond to the outrageous demand, Steve made a move, diving toward the elder Baxter. But Cletus had the advantage of higher seating, and not being slowed down by the blow to the head that Steve had no doubt received. Steve's hands were also cuffed behind his back. Cletus simply swung the butt of the rifle, catching Steve in the side. He fell back against the cab before dropping to the floor with a painful sounding thump. _

_"Steve!" The word was torn from Mark, and he took a half step forward. But Cletus swung the rifle back around in his direction this time. _

_"Now ya sit right there on that spare tire and be real quiet, boy," he said to Steve, though his eyes never strayed from Mark's. "Else, I might just put a little hole in your Pa to let him know I mean business." _

_Steve shared a look with Mark before shuffling his way to the spot that Cletus had indicated. Mark knew that look. Steve wouldn't struggle while a gun was being pointed at his father. Cletus Baxter had stumbled on a very effective deterrent. _

_"Donnie!" Cletus yelled to the younger Baxter, who immediately sprang into action. He stepped out of the old truck and began to put an ancient looking black balaclava over Steve's head. _

_"Now, do we have a deal, Doc?" the outlaw drew Mark's attention. _

_"We have a deal," Mark told him. _

_"I promise he'll be okay, Doctor Sloan." Donald Baxter spoke for the first time. "As soon as you prove Tucker's innocence, he'll be brought back safe and sound. I'll make sure myself. Just --" _

_"Get in the truck and drive, Donnie!" Cletus cut the middle Baxter off mid ramble. Donald was apparently used to obeying because the flow of words cut off like a faucet. He turned and got back into the truck. Mark's last view of Steve was as the raggedy old pick up advanced down the driveway at a speed that was too fast for safety. _

_Sloans' Deck_

While Steve had fought to make the flimsy old broom remove dirt that seemed to have no intention of being separated from its buddy the floorboards, Cletus Baxter spouted a laundry list of items he wanted taken care of around the old cabin. Steve had listened through it all, silently fuming. When the old coot had fallen silent, Steve looked up mutinously into the man's expectant gaze.

"Didn't your pa teach ya any respect, boy?" Cletus demanded.

Steve bristled, and the words were out before he could call them back. "My father taught me how to earn respect." He was expecting the blow that would follow the outburst, but to his surprise, it didn't come.

Instead, Cletus gave him a measuring look. Then he nodded. "I can admire that in a man. A father should teach a boy the way he should go in life. It ain't always so easy to do the showin' as it is to do the talkin'."

Steve hadn't been sure how to respond to that, so he'd acknowledged the old man with a slight inclination of his head and went back to the sweeping.

"In the future," Cletus got his attention again. "So's you'll know. I'll expect some sort of acknowledgment when I tell you to do something. Ya hear?"

"Got it," Steve bit out, and went on with his task. Shortly thereafter, the Baxters had disappeared outside, while Cletus mumbled something about vittles. The only sound that remained in the cabin was the scrapes of the straw broom as he pulled it across the floor and the inevitable coughing that followed as dust was kicked up around the place. He was pleased to discover that if he used the broom handle, he could reach far enough to open the window shutters and allow a little air and light into the room.

That success gave him an idea. He began testing the boundaries of the chain. The door was out of the question, but with the aid of the broom's handle, he could reach an area beneath some shelving where piles of rusted out pieces of mostly junk were kept. Attacking the remainder of the room's trash left his mind as he searched around looking for something, anything, that he could use as a tool or a weapon.

As he riffled through the items, his mind wandered over the case and how it had led to his present situation. The evidence against Tucker was piled high and wide, but that didn't seem to make much difference to old Cletus Baxter. And the fact that the young man had done little to help himself -- more often than not lapsing into stony silences -- didn't seem to figure into the older man's reasoning either. He just wanted what he wanted.

Steve often tried to look beneath the surface when dealing with criminals, especially the younger ones. In addition, he had been curious as to whether there was anything else to the story of Tucker Baxter than was obvious. His family history hadn't made it easy to prove, neither had any of the evidence. It seemed that Tucker was just what he appeared to be -- guilty of using violence to solve his problems.

Considering the fact that he'd been found with the murder weapon in hand as he stood over the dead, still cooling, body of his enemy, it was going to be pretty hard for anyone to prove his innocence, even Mark Sloan. However, Steve trusted that his father would work out some sort of scheme to try to get him back home again. In addition, in the meantime, he would work on his own plan to break away from his captors.

Unexpectedly, as he looked upward at the shelves, the room tilted. His eyes squeezed shut as he stumbled sideways, catching himself roughly against the log wall. Every muscle in his body seemed to protest the jarring contact. The pounding in his head reached a crescendo and his painfully dry throat protested as a grunt escaped him.

_Terrific. _As if he'd needed a reminder of Cletus Baxter's love taps. Or of the fact that he'd had nothing to eat or drink since the half cup of coffee he'd managed before running out of the house that morning. Sweating under that hot balaclava probably hadn't helped his hydration level much, either.

But, the spell had been brief, and the world had returned to what was currently passing for normal. He needed to get back to his search.

Suddenly, a loud echoing gunshot pierced the air. He stiffened in shock, waiting in the silence that followed. One part of him hoped to hear the crash of footsteps, the cry of federal marshals, police, or any symbol of organized authority. Another part was willing to accept even evidence that Donald Baxter had come to his senses, and taken matters into his own hands. He was certainly the weak link, after all. But there was nothing. Even the soft background noises of life in the woods had gone.

Slowly the bird song seemed to start up again. He could hear the whisper of a breeze outside the window that he'd opened. But the adrenaline that had flooded his system remained in excess, reminding him that he was at the mercy of a crazy man. He pushed himself away from the wall and moved tiredly toward the spot where the broom had fallen.

It was slightly out of reach. So with a grunt, he went down on hands and knees and stretched an arm out toward it. As he did so, he caught the sounds of booted feet stomping up onto the porch. Before he could convince his protesting body to get itself into a standing position, the door flew open. The shadowed form of the two Baxters stood there, the sun at their backs.

Steve lifted a hand and squinted against the glare just as Cletus' arm swung. Something detached from his hand and flew through the air. It hit the floor with a hollow, slightly squishy, thump before rolling into the side of Steve's shoe. For several moments his mind struggled to identify the object.

"Ain't ya ever seen a muskrat, boy?" Cletus Baxter's voice rang through the dusty air. "We shot and skinned 'em for ya. All's ya gotta do is clean 'em and roast 'em up."

Steve's stomach roiled as the reality behind the scrawny animal became painfully clear. He could do little more than blink numbly up at the two men as they entered the room and closed the door behind them.


	3. Muskrat Love

**Chapter Three: Muskrat Love**

The animal stared back at Steve with sightless eyes, death had left its top lip rolled up and dirty sharp teeth exposed. He looked back at the two men who stood in front of him and wondered just exactly what he was supposed to do with the creature.

"Well, get off your knees, Boy, you've got a supper to fix!" Cletus ordered.

As he spoke spittle flew from his mouth and it was flecked with bits of tobacco from the ever present wad he kept in his mouth. It landed on the floor around Steve and their 'supper'. He had caught, cleaned and cooked fish before, but that was completely different, if they had walked in and thrown a bass at his feet, even one with a bullet hole, he could have dealt with it, as it was he didn't even know where to begin. "I don't know what to do with it," Steve explained as he gestured towards the carcass.

"Didn't that daddy of yours teach you nothin'? My boy learned how to skin, clean and cook critters before he was six years old."

Steve felt his temper rise at another suggestion that his father had failed him in some way. "My, FATHER," Steve emphasized the word as he spoke. "Taught me everything I need to know to be an honest, decent man, it's a shame yours didn't do the same for you!" Steve regretted it as soon as he spoke; he knew he would pay for his comment, but once again Cletus's reaction surprised him.

It started as a low rumble in his chest and bubbled out into deep laughter. Cletus Baxter slapped Steve on the shoulder. "I see talking about yer Pa can make ya a bit touchy, I'll have to remember that, Donnie, show the city boy how to clean this here critter up. Next time you'll be doing it on your own," he informed Steve as he walked away still chuckling.

_Sloans' Deck_

"This is a waste of time!" Jesse exclaimed as he slammed a file on the table.

Mark reached a hand to steady the glass of lemonade that nearly sloshed out of the container as the folder had impacted the table. He peered over the top of his glasses with tired blue eyes at his young friend. Though Jesse could always be described as impatient and at times impetuous, the word angry was rarely used. They were all weary; Amanda and Jesse had joined them as soon as their shifts had ended, a double for Jesse, and they'd been poring over the information in the folders since. The dull ache from Mark's lower back was now settling into every muscle of his entire body. Experience had told him it was too early to give up, but he was finding it difficult to concentrate, vivid images of Steve in the bed of the truck as it drove away were interspersed with other visions his imagination kept creating, in all of them his son was hurt and in pain. Sighing, he redirected his thoughts to the matter at hand, he could help Jesse. "Jesse, I know you are tired and it's frustrating, but we have to find something to help Steve."

Blue eyes flashed above cheeks that were flushed in anger. "I know that, Mark, but this is not the way, you know the governor, call him, get the National Guard involved in searching the woods, that would be much more productive than trying to prove a guilty man innocent!"

Mark knew that the root of this uncharacteristic outburst was fear, it was taking every ounce of personal control he had not to succumb to it as well, and he didn't know if he had the strength to fight the battle for Jesse.

"Jesse," Amanda said softly, she had moved so quietly that no one had realized she now stood beside him. "Come take a walk with me, please? My back and neck are killing me and I need to stretch." As she finished she offered him her hand.

Jesse stared up at her, the peacefulness of her expression calmed him and he felt the tendrils of anger recede to a manageable level. As he looked towards Mark his cheeks were red again, this time from embarrassment. "Mark, I'm sorry, I don't know what got into me."

Mark waved a hand nonchalantly. "Don't worry about it, Jesse, you are scared like the rest of us, now go walk with Amanda."

_Sloans' Deck_

Steve picked the piece of fur from between his teeth, apparently Donnie didn't believe in completely cleaning the animals he caught and killed. He had watched the entire process amazed at what Donnie could do with a knife, having observed his father and Jesse in surgery he recognized someone who was naturally gifted. It appeared though, that removing the fur was another matter entirely, and he certainly needed practice for that. He had never thought he would see the day that something he would normally consider road kill would be his dinner. He was so involved in trying to pry a small piece of meat that remained on a tiny bone that he didn't realize that Cletus was standing in front of him until he grunted, he looked up to find him offering him a glass. Steve muttered his thanks and sat the glass on the floor beside him.

"Ain't ya gonna take a drink?" Cletus asked.

Steve eyed him for a moment, picked the glass up and looked at the liquid, it was then that the smell hit him, he almost gagged. "It's moonshine," he stated.

"Well ain't you the smart one," Cletus responded.

Steve then noticed that Cletus's breath matched the smell emanating from his cup, his eyes were bloodshot and if possible his speech was worse than normal. He looked beyond him to see Donnie practically slumped in his chair; apparently, both men had been having a good deal of drink to go along with their meager meal. Steve allowed himself a mental smile, when he had been cleaning earlier he had found the end of an old garden hoe, he had intended to wait until they left him alone again to try and pry the end of his ankle chain out of the rotting wall. Now though, it appeared that Pa and junior were well on their way to tying one on. He offered Cletus a small smile and holding his breath he brought the glass to his lips and pretended to take a sip. He knew what kind of reaction Cletus was expecting so he obliged, he coughed and choked loudly, the aroma from the drink helped by causing his eyes to water. All in all he thought he had given an academy award winning performance, and his reward was the sound of a hyena like cackle that probably scattered animals for miles around the cabin.

"Whoo-ew, I told Donnie you wouldn't be able to handle my corn liquor, look at 'im, Donnie, he's a cryin' like a baby. Shame we don't have a goat we could get you some milk, it might be a little gentler on your delicate stomach." He snorted one more time, before stumbling back towards the table and falling into a chair.

_Sloans' Deck_

They had to sleep, Mark knew it, he was exhausted, but he seriously doubted if he would even be able to lie down. He looked around the table, Amanda. Cheryl and Jesse were all engrossed in the files they were looking at, but fatigue was visible in their faces and their bodies, even Amanda, who had impressed his sister Dora with her perfect posture, was slouched in her chair. Cheryl had been off the clock for hours now, yet she was still here as well, and Jesse, well Jesse had come back from his walk re-energized, and he was convinced they would find the answer tonight. "I think it's time we called it a night, you are all welcome to stay here if you like."

Three startled faces looked at him in unison.

"But, Mark, we haven't found anything yet," Jesse responded.

"I know, Jesse, but we are all tired and I don't think this is going to be something we can solve in one night, we all need some rest, and you and Amanda both have shifts at the hospital in the morning."

Amanda rose from the table, stopped beside him and dropped a kiss on his cheek. "Are you going to be ok here?"

"Yes, I'll be fine, go home to the boys, I've kept you away from them too long anyway," as he had finished his voice had broken.

"Mark, what is it?" She asked quietly.

He looked up at her with moist eyes that were filled with pain and sadness. "Hug your sons tight, they are all that matter."

His expression tore at her very soul, they had to find Steve and he had to be ok, because if not, the Baxters would claim two victims, she felt certain Mark would not survive the loss of his son.

_Sloans' Deck_

The loud snores were interrupted only by the sounds of other more unpleasant body functions. Steve had been leaning up against the wall for hours now. Cletus and Donnie had consumed so much of the moonshine he'd given up trying to keep track of it. The time waiting patiently for proof they were completely out of it had been spent quietly working on the wood around the iron eye in the wall. He had been delighted at how easily parts of it had come loose. One good tug and it would break away, he glanced one last time at his captors then yanked on the eye, it came free and if not for a quick recovery on his part would have banged on the floor. As silently as the chains would allow he stood up, and moved across the small room to the door. Stopping for a moment he tried to remember how loudly it had creaked when it had opened before, realizing he had not been paying attention he cursed himself while grasping the knob and turning it slowly and pulling it towards him. The door screeched on rusted hinges and Steve quickly looked over at his captors, they had not even stirred, as he stepped through the door a path to the woods became visible. He found himself bathed in moonlight and started down the trail that he hoped would lead him to freedom, the beams were oddly comforting and they seemed to guide the way.

_Sloans' Deck_

The others had been gone for close to an hour, he had been relieved when no one had taken him up on his offer to stay, he needed this time alone. There had not really been any time to come to terms with what had happened. Immediately after Steve was taken, he had called the police and reporting the details of the kidnapping had been his sole focus, then he had turned his attention on Captain Newman and getting access to the evidence that had been gathered in the case. The brainstorming session with Amanda, Cheryl and Jesse had consumed the rest of his time. He found himself alone with his thoughts, normally it would have been a relaxing time, but this was not the case now. The house seemed larger than normal and not nearly as friendly or comforting as it usually was. He walked across the deck and down the steps, as he started across the sand he stopped for a moment and looked back over his shoulder at the door that led to Steve's apartment. The despair threatened to overwhelm him, but he willed it away and continued walking until he reached a log that sat at the edge of a dune. As he sat down, Mark noticed that the log was suffering from the ravages of time; it had survived longer than he would ever have imagined. This was where Steve came when he needed to work things out, sometimes Mark would join him, at other times he would leave him to handle it himself. Mark looked up to the sky and at the moonlight that was enveloping him, the beams spread a warmth through him and to his amazement he found comfort in their glow.

_Sloans' Deck_

Steve had been walking for a little over thirty minutes, his progress had been hampered by the heavy chain and its tendency to catch on every twig or branch. His face was riddled with scratches and his shirt had been torn in several places. The path had taken him deeper into the woods and the canopy of trees had obliterated the moonlight. He heard a rustling from behind him and he stopped and held his breath while he listened, an owl hooted in the tree above him causing him to jump. The noise from the rear grew louder and the urge to run overwhelmed him and he stumbled forward at a jog. He now heard sounds from all around him, the Baxters were on his trail. His level of fatigue had increased and along with it so had the pounding in his head. Those two things combined to make him careless and it wasn't until his ankle pressed against the trip wire that he realized he had walked into a trap.


	4. Wanted A Sterile Environment

**Chapter Four: Wanted. A Sterile Environment**

_Bang!_

The sound of the gunshot was still echoing through his head as Mark sat bolt upright in his bed, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts and his pyjamas were soaked with perspiration. Forcing his breathing into a more even rhythm, Mark reached out and switched on his bedside lamp illuminating his room in a soft, peach coloured glow. Running his hands through his hair, Mark made an effort to calm his brain. It was a long time since he'd had that dream, he thought to himself. Shaking his head, Mark got out of bed and made his way through to the kitchen for a hot milk. He knew from experience that he would not easily get back to sleep. The dream, as always, was exceptionally vivid. In it Steve was running for his life, although Mark could never figure out from what as the whole scene was shrouded in darkness except for Steve who was bathed in light. Mark knew one thing though, his son was running towards him and it was just as Steve was within a few steps of safety that the shot rang out.

The milk was beginning to bubble in the pan so Mark turned off the gas and poured the warm liquid into the waiting mug. Taking a small sip, Mark walked back through to the dining room. Sitting down at the paper- and photo-strewn table he began to leaf through what was there. He, like Jesse and Amanda, was frustrated at not being able to pick out something from everything in front of him. Mark prided himself on his ability to cut through all the extraneous evidence to the heart of the matter and he didn't like the fact that he wasn't able to this time. It hadn't occurred to him that on most other occasions he had Steve by his side helping, whilst this time it was Steve he was looking for.

Picking up a photograph of Tucker Baxter and, gazing into the young man's face, Mark paused for a moment. Over the years he had come across many murderers and there was a look in the eyes that was common to all of them and it was a look that Mark felt was absent in Tucker Baxter. For a while Mark continued to stare into those young eyes and, suddenly, came to a decision. He looked over at the clock, it was four thirty in the morning, far too early to do anything now, he thought, but he would ring Jim Newman later and get him to arrange a visit to Tucker. He wasn't finding anything in the paperwork, maybe he would get a bit further by talking to Tucker.

_Sloans' Deck_

_Bang!_

Steve's momentum, slow as it was, had made him unable to stop the wire from breaking. The gentle _snap_ that it made was almost totally covered by the loud retort from the gun which had been hidden in a nearby tree. Under normal circumstances, Steve's lightening quick reflexes would have enabled him to dodge but, unfortunately, recent events had slowed him down immensely. The bullet tore through the flesh of his right shoulder, ricocheted off the bone and out the back before embedding itself in a tree behind him. The force of the shot span Steve on his heels and he dropped to his knees.

_Sloans' Deck_

_Bang!_

"I _told_ you it was a good idea to set that trap," Cletus exulted, as he took off in the direction of the shot.

Taking a deep breath, things were getting far too complicated for his liking, Donald followed his father at a slower pace. Up ahead of him he heard his father crashing through the undergrowth and picked up the speed a little bit so that he could catch him up. He knew his father's temper would have been fuelled by Steve's escape and he wanted to make sure that Cletus didn't do anything irrevocable. Donald emerged into the small clearing to find him standing over Steve with his foot pulled back, ready to inflict a hefty kick.

"Pa, don't!" he cried, "Let's just get him back inside."

Throwing his son a look of complete disgust, Cletus dropped his foot back to the floor.

"Serve him right for tryin' to escape," he muttered, reaching down to pull Steve roughly to his feet ignoring the agonised groan which accompanied it.

"Pa!" again Donald attempted to restrain his father.

He stepped forward draped Steve's uninjured arm around his own shoulder and, slowly, the three men made their way back to the shack.

_Sloans' Deck_

Captain Newman hadn't been very happy at Mark's request, especially as his phone had rung almost before he was awake, but he had eventually gone along with it. So it was, later in the morning, that Mark was ushered into a small, dingy room. A table sat in the centre with a chair either side of it and on one of them sat a young man in a bright orange jump suit. As the door opened he looked up and when he saw it wasn't his lawyer he said, "Who are you?"

"My name is Mark Sloan," Mark replied.

"Sloan," Tucker replied slowly, "Hey, that's the name of the cop."

"That's right," Mark answered, "he is my son."

"I didn't have nothin' to do with what my grandpa done." Tucker immediately responded.

"I didn't say that you had," Mark assured him, sitting down in the vacant chair, "I just wanted to have a chat."

"What about?" Tucker's tone was belligerent and Mark sighed to himself, the interview was going to be harder than he thought.

"I just wanted to talk to you about Rico Alonso," Mark had just begun speaking when Tucker broke in.

"I didn't kill him!"

"I never said that you did, son," Mark attempted to calm the young man down, "I simply wanted to talk to you."

As if regretting his outburst, Tucker sat back draping an arm over the back saying, "Talk away."

"Actually," Mark responded, "I was hoping that you would tell me something of your relationship with Rico and his friends."

"Didn't have no _relationship_," Tucker said, "They all were just mean to me."

"Mean, how?" Mark asked, although, having read the paperwork, he was well aware of how.

"They wouldn't leave it alone. That I was in the 'program'," Tucker answered.

"Program?" It cost Mark a lot to appear ignorant of the young man's background but he hoped that it would give Tucker a reason to talk, to enlighten him.

"Special needs," he replied with an irritated tone in his voice, "didn't you know, I'm stupid!"

"I have never thought that young people who are in programs like that are stupid," Mark answered.

An arrested look came across Tucker's face for apart from educationalists, he hadn't met many people who hadn't called him stupid, either behind his back or to his face.

"Why are you here?" he asked again.

Mark decided to be honest.

"Your grandfather, when he kidnapped my son, said that the only way I would see him again was if I could prove your innocence. I needed to talk to you."

"Why?"

"Because I am a very good judge of character, by and large, and I wanted to see you to make sure that I wasn't wasting my time."

Tucker stared into the lined face for a long while.

"I didn't kill Rico," he said at last, although this time his tone was calm and Mark had the distinct impression that he was telling the truth.

"Okay," he answered, "tell me all about the day that Rico died."

_Sloans' Deck_

_Bang!_

It was the slamming of the door which brought Steve to his senses. Almost immediately though he wished that he was still out because he became aware of a searing pain in his shoulder. He moaned.

Footsteps moved across the room to stand over him.

"Awake huh?" the voice of Cletus Baxter rang unpleasantly to Steve's ears, "That'll learn yah to try and escape. I just hope your daddy manages to do what we told him before you bleed to death."

"Pa," Donald spoke, "we can't leave him to die. That'll make us cop killers and what good would it do Tucker if we go down?"

"You always were a soft thing," Cletus growled at his son, but Steve could hear that Donald's voice of reason had had the desired effect, "you go and get some medicine to patch him up. I'll stay here and keep an eye on him."

Looking down at the police officer at his feet, Donald said, "Okay, just leave him be, Pa. Okay? I'll be back soon."

Again Steve heard the door slam and shortly afterwards an engine started up and the noise of the tyres on the gravel as the truck he arrived in was driven away.

Donald Baxter had to keep rubbing the palms of his hands on his grubby trousers as they were slick with nervous sweat. He hadn't liked the idea of kidnapping anyone, let alone a cop but his Pa had always managed to talk him into anything. Now the cop was shot and if he didn't look after him they would have a dead cop on their hands. He hadn't had much of a life so far, but Donald didn't particularly like the idea of ending it strapped to a gurney waiting for a lethal cocktail of drugs to be injected into his system. Up ahead of him, he saw the lights of a convenience store. Pulling into the compact parking lot, he got out of the truck and walked inside. Making his way straight to the medicines aisle, Donald picked up some bandages and anything else that he thought might be of use. It was as he was moving towards the check out that he saw the police car pull up next to his truck.


	5. There's Never a Cop Around When You Need...

**Chapter Five: There's Never a Cop Around When You Need One**

The silence in the small room had gone on for so long that Mark wondered whether Tucker had decided to plead the fifth a little early. Finally though, just when he knew he would have to break the silence himself, Mark was surprised by the sound of Tucker's voice.

"It was just a normal day, y'know."

Mark groaned inwardly, ten minutes of nothing for that, maybe this was going to be a waste of time after all.

"I had tried to get away from him all day, but he just kept bugging me, on and on. I did what they tells ya to do, I snitched."

Mark nodded, not wanting to say anything just yet, but remembering how Steve had always felt that reporting someone was a bad thing, or at least he had, until he realised what the alternatives were.

"Didn't do no good, he'd lay off when teachers were around, but soon as they were gone he'd just start up again. 'Hey, special boy, Tuck, Tuck, Tucker!'" Tucker paused for a moment and Mark could see him think things through again. "He was real clever y'know, he never said nothin' that was real nasty, but he just kept on and on. He knew what I'd done at my other school too, kept callin' out about me havin' a record, being so dumb all I could do was thump people . . . sometimes I wanted to kill him." Tucker's hands were now in tight fists and, suddenly realising this, he hid them in his lap.

"But you had been goading him too, hadn't you?"

"Uh?" Tucker looked at Mark and it was obvious he had no idea what Mark meant.

"Letters, you sent him letters."

"No, I never, I sent him one letter. Got suspended for that, ten lousy days. D'you know what I had to do for ten days?"

"I have no idea." Mark didn't really want to know, "The letter said you were going to kill Rico . . . with a hammer."

"So? It don't mean I done it. Besides, if I'd put gun instead of hammer I'd have got a lot longer than ten days. I didn't see no one for ten days."

"So the fact that you said Rico would be killed with a hammer and he was, that was coincidence?"

"I already told that cop it was . . . Hey, I seen you before." The realisation suddenly hit Tucker and he stared intently at the old man across the table from him. "I guess I should apologise, I sort of messed up your hospital, huh?"

Mark just nodded, the boy hadn't messed it up, he'd trashed it. It had taken Steve, Cheryl and a security guard ten minutes to subdue the boy and then it had taken maintenance four days to repair the damage.

"Tucker, I have to tell you, things look real bad for you, you need to tell me how I can prove you didn't kill him, because otherwise you are gonna go to jail and my son is going to die."

_Sloans' Deck_

Donald couldn't believe what he was seeing; the black and white was parked so close to his truck that he'd have to get in the passenger side or he'd damage their vehicle and his own. He ducked back down an aisle which, he realised belatedly, wasn't the type he usually went in. Trying to look interested in the items on the shelves he picked up a box and began to slowly read the words on the front.

'Cl . . . air . . . ol . . . hair col . . . or . . . ant." He turned it over and there on the back were four squares with different shades of red in them. For a moment he considered buying it, changing his hair colour and just driving off, but his pa'd find him for sure, and then he'd whup his hide, no matter that he was thirty-four already.

"Hey, Barb, how's it going today?" The voice almost made him drop the box and he scuttled further up the aisle as he saw the back view of probably the biggest cop in California standing just a little way from him.

"Dead, nothing going on, but Jake called in, told me that Marsha's in the hospital. He thinks her twins'll be born today for sure." The store assistant laughed a moment before continuing, "I told him, it's their first, she's got days yet, days." Even in his state of panic Donald knew that Barb was enjoying the prospect of the woman taking ages to deliver her babies.

The cop laughed along with the assistant and then began to talk. "Guy's an optimist, gotta give him that. I need to get some soda, antacid and Joanie needs a new hair colour, says she's fed up with being blonde, what colour you think she should go this time?"

Donald made his way quickly into the next aisle, saw that it was full of chocolate, candy bars and potato chips and pulled a handful of each into his basket, on top of the bandages and first aid equipment, listening to the conversation and his loudly beating heart at the same time.

"She doesn't want to go black, it'll make her look like Morticia . . . how about pink?"

Donald didn't wait to hear the answer, he made for the door, scooted across the parking lot, clambered into the truck, started the engine and was gone before the police officer or store worker realised that he had even been there.

_Sloans' Deck_

"Doc, I found him, he was just lying there, an' the hammer was stickin' out of his head, I don't know why I pulled it out, but I did." For a moment Tucker shuddered as the memory of the difficulty of the task, as well as the sucking noise it had made, came to the front of his mind. "It splurted, blood, ucky stuff, I don't know what, but it splurted all over me." Again he stopped talking but then resolutely he started again. "I knew he must still be alive, the blood was still flowin' that means he's alive right?" Tucker didn't wait for an answer, now he was talking he didn't seem able to stop.

"I got down on the floor next to him, I put the hammer down an' I spoke to him. He was a bully an' a whole lot of other things too, but I knew he was dyin', I just wanted to let him know I was there."

"So, if you were on the floor, talking, why did the school resource officer find you standing over the body with the weapon in your hand?"

"I was scared, ok? I heard this voice, I didn't know who it was, but it could have been the killer comin' back, I didn't want to be next."

"Why didn't you tell Steve that?" Mark knew that when his son had interviewed the young man he had refused to say anything other than they were gonna hang him anyhow so what was the point.

"Because that cop, him and the lady, they thought I'd done it, and I may be thick but I'm not stupid, I was found standing over a dead body with a hammer in my hand when the body don't have a skull left. Besides . . . " Tucker trailed off and Mark sat and waited.

It didn't take long before the young man began to speak again, "Besides, I'd just smashed up that hospital room, I thought he was gonna kill me y'know, he's big and strong, I didn't want to annoy him any more than I'd already done."

Mark detected a little bit of respect for Steve in the voice of his companion and smiled inwardly. Maybe that would help him; because right now he had precious little else to go on, time was running out and he needed all the help he could get.

_Sloans' Deck_

Steve had no idea how long Donald had been away, he thought that he had probably been out of it for a while, he wasn't sure, but usually when he was in this much pain he didn't stay conscious for very long at a stretch. He tried to move himself into a more comfortable position and was unable to stop from crying out as the grit and gravel off the dirty floor rubbed into his wound causing it to burn even more.

"Boy, if you wanna be movin' about I can find you a job to do. I ploughed a whole field one year with a bullet in me which makes your'n look like a splinter."

"Yeah, well good for you. Ughhh." Steve felt himself being kicked out at and, not being sharp enough to move quickly, he couldn't protect himself as the work boot made contact with his side, knocking the wind out of him and jarring his back against the floor once again.

"You know, Donald may be my son, an' all, but he's soft, he hasn't worked out yet that there is no way, whatever happens, that you're going home to your cosy little life by the beach. You'm a dead man, me too, so I don't got nothing to lose, understand me?"

The stinking breath of his captor almost made Steve pass out where he lay. The smell of the muskrat was mixed with the moonshine and God knew what else to provide Cletus with an odour which would probably kill all known germs and him as well.

"So, is your pa clever as they say he is? Does Donald's boy stand a chance? I never thought he'd do it, not kill a man, guess I was wrong."

"Are you saying he did it? Tucker killed Rico?" Steve could only stare in horror at the man in front of him. They had sent his father on a wild goose chase, and Cletus was right, he was a dead man.


	6. Never Smile at a Crocodile

**Chapter Six: Never Smile At A Crocodile**

Steve's mind reeled – and now not just from the nauseating mix of muskrat, moonshine and half chewed tobacco which compounded Cletus' already noxious odour.

From the moment he'd been abducted, he'd been anchored by the hope – no, the certainty – that if anyone could prove Tucker Baxter's innocence, and get him out of this mess, it was his father.

Mark Sloan's tenacity for the truth was legendary, as was his unfailing judgment of character. If there was the slightest chance that the boy was innocent, Mark Sloan would ensure that justice was done.

To be told now, though, that his current ordeal might all be for nothing. To think these hillbilly rejects were, for whatever reason, making a fool of his father . . .

If he'd not been in so much pain, Steve might have let a rising tide of anger get the better of him. Dissuaded still further by the painful consequence of any protest, he rested his aching head back onto the floor.

His helplessness infuriated him, but Steve knew better than to let that anger show. Instead he closed his eyes, consoling himself with bittersweet images of home. His father would, he knew, be pulling out all the stops to find him. And he'd bet his pension, such as it was, that Jess and Amanda would be right there to support him, as the best of families always did.

Just the trace of a smile chased away the pangs of yearning and fear. Comforting thoughts now strengthened Steve's faith and resolve. They'd find him. They'd find him . . .

_Sloans' Deck_

Compelled by instincts he never questioned, only welcomed, Mark Sloan smiled. For the first time in almost two days, he felt positive – satisfied that he was finally doing something constructive to find his son.

Thoughts of how closely Jesse had shared that feeling caused his smile to widen. His young friend could never sit still at the best of times, let alone when someone he cared about was in danger. And when that someone was Steve . . .

It had been interesting and, in many ways, comforting, to watch Jesse's response to the crisis of Steve's kidnapping. His young friend had frequently demonstrated that kid brothers could be just as fiercely protective as their older siblings. Nothing got the boy more rattled than when his own protector came under threat. Now was no exception.

Two hours ago, he'd sent Jesse to South Gate Senior High School, for him to ferret for leads as only Jesse Travis could.

It had almost been like stepping back in time, the directions barely out of his mouth before Jesse had left the house with all the friskiness of a puppy set free from its leash Still, Mark reflected fondly, unlike the Margie Karn investigation, at least this time he'd waited for those directions _before_ bolting away.

One thing was for sure, South Gate Senior High didn't know what was about to hit it! And, Mark thought wryly, Ron Wagner was probably feeling the same way . . .

_Sloans' Deck_

Ron Wagner had felt no qualms over answering Amanda's 3am call for help. After a shaky start, he'd come to respect the Sloans far more than the no-nonsense FBI agent would be prepared to admit. And if truth be told, he'd come to regard both doctor and son as friends rather than acquaintances.

He just wished that, having been brought in to exert his influence, he might actually be allowed to do so.

The normal police investigation into Rico Alonso's death had hit a frustrating stonewall, from a school principal more concerned with his establishment's image and reputation than a man's life – hence Mark Sloan's request for some 'weightier assistance.'

By no stretch of the imagination could you class a skinny, five foot six inch doctor who looked half his age as 'weightier assistance'. The problem was, no one had explained that to said tired, anxious and now extremely hacked off five foot six inch doctor!

_They wouldn't dare_, Ron thought wryly, again struck by how deceptive appearances could be. He himself had made the mistake of questioning Jesse Travis' seemingly outlandish theories – memories of the young doctor's quietly triumphant "I'm always doing that . . . " causing one side of his mouth to twitch reluctantly upwards.

Yes, there was no doubt that young Travis was a force to be reckoned with – as the aptly named Victor Stalling was now discovering.

"Look, Mr Stalling, none of this _has_ to reach the papers…" Jesse replied patiently to the principal's latest cause to deny them – the unspoken '_but that could easily change' _still evident in both his voice and his determined expression.

A past master at reasoning with difficult, unresponsive patients, Jesse then schooled his voice into a quiet, level calmness. "We're not interested in creating problems, or bad publicity for your school. All we're interested in is saving Lieutenant Sloan's life. And all we're asking is to interview Tucker Baxter's classmates to find out if they'd been bullied and intimidated too. We need to find out whether someone other than Tucker had a motive to kill Rico."

He'd tried every approach he could think of, from the glacier melting smile (which had at least worked on Stalling's secretary), through the back up plan of charm, reasoning and now thinly veiled threats.

He'd kept calm and reasonable throughout, which deserved at least some recognition. So the principal's eventual response was as unjust as it was unwelcome.

"You make a most convincing argument, Dr Travers…" he finally sniffed, adding insult to injury by deliberately mispronouncing Jesse's name. "But I have given every co-operation to the police that I'm obliged to give under that court order they served on me. Which I did _not_ appreciate, by the way. I mean, the humiliation of having all those police descend on my school, right in the middle of our charity fundraiser…"

It was obvious from Jesse's quietly seething expression that he didn't think Victor Stalling had a charitable bone in his body. It was also obvious, as the two combatants glared at each other across Stalling's desk, that World War Three was about to break out.

At any other time, Ron Wagner might have settled back to enjoy the show. With so much at stake, though, he simply reached into his inside pocket, smiling at their opponent with all the charm of a predatory crocodile as he drew out his cellphone.

"Well, Mr Stalling, I'd say you have a choice. You can either provide Dr _Travis_ here with the information he needs, or I get a full FBI squad down here. And believe me, they're not nearly so discreet, or inconspicuous, as us."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could just see a trace of a smirk cross Jesse's face, as that of Victor Stalling took on an expression of scandalised outrage.

"But – But that's blackmail!" he blustered, any further protests he may have had effectively quashed by the sight of Ron's finger pressing into the cellphone's keypad.

Resigned to the fact that he'd met his match, the still muttering principal reached for his intercom.

"Miss Jensen? Can you provide these _gentlemen_ with a full list of Mr Kennedy's class?"

A few minutes later, the eavesdropping secretary came in, carrying a small folder. And maybe it was a trick of the sunlight, but Jesse felt sure she winked at him, trying in vain to hide a 'good for you' grin as she walked past.

As Stalling left too, no doubt to protest his treatment to the school's attorney, Jesse turned to Ron, his expression one part gratitude to three parts curiosity. "I didn't know you had an FBI team follow us up here!"

"I didn't," Ron replied, nonchalantly shrugging his shoulders. "It's a good thing he caved when he did, though, or else I'd have had to explain the arrival of my favourite Chinese takeout."

He'd kept his face straight throughout – but that didn't last long, as Jesse's surprise gave way to helpless, much needed laughter.

As they drove back to LA, Jesse frowned at the sheets of paper that rested in his lap. One name in particular intrigued him. And he knew that Mark would soon feel the same way.


	7. Murderous Misconceptions

**Chapter Seven: Murderous Misconceptions**

Steve shuddered violently as Donnie Baxter pressed a hot rag against the wound in his shoulder and gritted his teeth to hold back the moan that wanted to escape. Cletus had made it abundantly clear that he wasn't to speak unless spoken to, and he assumed that also went for moans, groans, and other sounds of discomfort. When Donnie had failed to return with the first aid kit, it was as if someone had pulled the plug on the last of his hopes, and he had been circling the drain of despair ever since.

Though Donnie had been cleaning his wound, changing and washing the rag dressings every few hours, Steve could feel the throbbing in his shoulder as it worked its way down his arm, across his chest and into his neck. The heat that surged with each beat of his heart and receded with the pauses in between told him he had a raging infection. The alternating fever and chills told him hot water and clean bandages would not be enough to save him. He needed antibiotics, and he needed them quickly.

Steve knew he was much too weak to make another escape attempt, and he had no idea how long he had been drifting in and out, though he thought it might have been a day or two by now. He did know his only remaining chance for survival depended on convincing Donnie to help him, and _that_ depended on him driving a wedge between father and son. With a discrete look around, he spied Cletus standing in the doorway of the cabin looking out at the trees and decided to use the moment to work on Donnie a little more.

"You know," he croaked in a dry whisper so that Cletus couldn't hear, "if you were to go off on another 'errand' and come back with the police, I would testify on your behalf, tell them that you tried to help me, tried to protect me from your father. I would ask the judge to go easy on you."

"Would you really?" Donnie sounded surprised and slightly interested as he gently pressed a fresh bandage against Steve's shoulder.

Steve nodded, "Sure. I could tell them that your father forced you into this, that he threatened you, that you were as much a victim as me. I might even be able to convince the DA not to charge you."

"You would do that for me?" Donnie asked.

"Sure . . . Ohhhhhh!" Steve groaned as the bandage was tied in place a bit too tightly with another clean rag. As he writhed in pain, he saw Donnie's glance shift toward the door, and then he stopped moving entirely as he felt Cletus press the barrel of his ever-present rifle hard against his chin. He knew then that he must be even sicker than he thought to have missed the old man's approach.

"Would you betray yer pa like you're askin' my boy to do me, Cop?" Cletus hissed angrily, and the cold voice betrayed the building rage that Steve knew was about to explode. The rifle pressed harder against his chin, tilting his head back against the floor. "I expect an answer, Boy!"

Steve swallowed hard and managed to whisper, "No."

Cletus leered cruelly and slid the barrel of the weapon down to rest on his prisoner's Adam's apple. He spat some tobacco juice in Donnie's direction and the younger Baxter flinched away. "'No', what, Boy?"

The rifle pressed harder, making it difficult to swallow or speak, but Steve managed to croak out, "No, Sir."

"Well, neither will my boy," Cletus replied, pressing steadily harder on Steve's throat as he spoke. "He hates me, an' he hates himself for bein' too much of a coward to do anythin' about it. Now, he might just grow a backbone an' blow my head off someday, but I doubt it, an' either way, I'm blood, an' he knows blood don't turn on blood for nobody else, no matter what. You unnerstan'?"

By now, the pressure on the gun was making it hard for Steve to breathe, and he was shivering, though from fear or fever, he couldn't tell. He let his gaze slide over to Donnie and he looked at the cowering young man half in sympathy, half in desperation, and his meager hopes sank when he saw that no help would be coming from that quarter. Finally, he looked back at Cletus, knowing his only chance now was to bow to the old man's will and try to stay alive long enough for help to arrive.

"Yes, Sir," he breathed, though with the rifle barrel pressing on his larynx, he could give the words no voice.

Cletus smiled almost beatifically then, as if he were overjoyed with the thought of having finally broken the tough cop's spirit, and Steve closed his eyes and relaxed slightly, grateful to have escaped a beating. Donnie's horrified gasp came too late to let him brace himself for the impending assault, and the blow from the rifle barrel against his Adam's apple left him coughing, retching, and fighting for air.

_Sloans' Deck_

Mark felt his knees begin to buckle and his head start to swim, and the world around him moved in slow motion as Amanda and Jesse helped him to a chair in the observation room. "My, God," he gasped, "what do we do now?"

For two days, Cheryl and Ron had insisted on working by the book and interviewing Tucker's classmates in alphabetical order while Jesse and Mark had begged them to interview Jeremy Stalling first. The two investigators felt that jumping down the list of students Mr. Stalling had provided for them could be construed as singling the boy out without reason. The two doctors believed that the fact that the principal neglected to mention that his son attended classes with both the victim and the alleged killer was reason enough to question Jeremy first. Only when Jason Abercrombie, Nicole Ashley, and Diane Boyle, the first three students on the class list, all mentioned that Jeremy had also been a prime target for Rico's taunts did Ron and Cheryl relent and agree to question Jeremy Stalling next.

When Lydia Stalling refused to let the police or the FBI speak to her son without a lawyer present, their curiosity and suspicions increased. They made an appointment for Mrs. Stalling to bring Jeremy into the precinct for an interview and in the meantime continued their investigation with Patrice Danforth, David Elias, and Susan Ellison, all of whom agreed that, after Tucker, Jeremy was the next likely candidate for class killer.

Mark had arrived early for the interview so that he could slip into the observation room unnoticed. His hopes for catching the real killer and rescuing his son were high, but within five minutes of Lydia and Jeremy Stalling's arrival, he knew they had the wrong person. Just by observing Jeremy's interaction with his mother and his reaction to the strange place, he knew the boy was intellectually incapable of formulating the intent, let alone carrying out the plan, necessary for him to commit first degree murder. They had wasted two days, they were right back where they had started from, and Steve's time was running out.

Mark looked on in despair as Cheryl and Ron entered the room. Before they even began speaking, Jeremy Stalling's lawyer, a man named Wilbur Smith, said, "My client isn't saying a word until you grant him immunity."

"Hi!" Jeremy said, and grinned at the new people who had entered the room.

"Jeremy, hush!" Lydia Stalling reprimanded him.

"Immunity?" Ron said curiously, "From what?"

"Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!" Jeremy began chanting and waving.

"Jeremy, be _quiet_!" his mother warned.

"Any and all charges having to do with the death of Rico Alonso."

"What makes you think we're going to charge him?" Cheryl asked casually. "We're just interviewing Tucker's classmates to see if there is anything we missed in our initial investigation."

"Now you say hi," Jeremy instructed no one in particular. "It rude not say hi when someone say hi you."

"Jeremy, Baby, please, hush. This is real important, and Mama needs you to be quiet for now," Lydia Stalling pleaded, nearly in tears. "Please, Baby, can you just not talk until Mr. Smith says you can?"

Jeremy touched his mother's face, gave her an angelic smile, and said, "Ok, Mama, I sorry."

"Thank you, Jeremy."

"I know how many people are killed in this city every year, Detective," Mr. Smith replied, and smiled at Jeremy as the young man suddenly turned his full attention toward him. "You wouldn't be wasting your time on further interviews unless you believed you had missed something, and now that you have a suspect in custody, I don't want you to start spinning a conspiracy theory and sucking my client into it."

"I kilt Rico!" Jeremy crowed triumphantly. He rocked back and forth in his chair, applauding himself with the stiff-fingered claps of a young child, grinning foolishly, and braying like a mule with laughter. "When he comin' back?"

Suddenly the room was in chaos.

"Jeremy, _no_!" his mother screeched and slapped the boy upside the head. Then she looked in shock from her son to her hand, amazed and mortified that she had struck her child.

Cheryl turned and looked through the one way glass toward Mark, Amanda, and Jesse, exhilarated that they had finally gotten a much-needed break and horrified that she and Steve had, apparently, arrested the wrong individual.

Jeremy began to sob and crawled under the table, wailing, "I sorry, Mama, I sorry! No hit. Pease, no hit!"

"My client has the intellectual capacity of a two year old, Agent Wagner," Mr. Smith began lecturing at the top of his lungs to be heard over the din. "He is not capable of criminal action, because he unable to form intent. He doesn't understand his rights and cannot comprehend the consequences of his actions. Hell, he doesn't even know that death is permanent!"

Ron took a moment to survey the situation before he spoke, then he began issuing orders. "Mr. Smith, please wait here. Detective Banks and I will be right back. Mrs. Stalling, please try to calm down and see if you can't get Jeremy out from under the table. Detective Banks, come with me." As he took Cheryl by the arm and guided her out of the room, he looked into the mirrored observation window and jerked his head toward the hall indicating that he wanted Mark, Jesse, and Amanda to meet him there.

_Sloans' Deck_

Donnie pressed a cool wet cloth to the cop's brow and placed his hand against the man's warm face. He tsked and tutted and shook his head over the fever he felt there, and after pulling the musty-smelling blanket up close under Steve's chin, he took a deep breath and approached his father.

"Pa-a," he began, but his voice cracked, making him sound and feel weak and afraid. He took another breath and tried again. "Pa, if that man dies, we're both gonna be facin' the death penalty."

"If he dies?" Cletus parroted, and began to laugh his crackly laugh. "_If_ he dies? Whoo-hoo!" He pierced his son with a steely glare and said, "Boy, don't be a fool. First of all, he ain't no man, he's a cop. An' second, he's dead already. He was dead the minute we snatched him from his driveway."

"Pa, what do you mean, he's dead already?" Donnie asked fearfully.

Cletus looked at his son and shook his head regretfully. "Stupid must run in your ma's family. I mean, we can't let him go, we can't keep him, an' we can't risk exchangin' him for Tucker 'cause the cops will be waitin' for us wherever we try to make the switch."

"Well then, why did we take him in the first place?"

Cletus shrugged and spat some tobacco juice in Steve's general direction. "'Cause we was both liquored up and it seemed like a good idea at the time," he said indifferently.

"What?" Donnie shouted in disbelief. "Are you tellin' me we kidnapped a cop because we was drunk?"

"Yep," Cletus replied laconically.

"But, Pa, that's insane!"

"Yup," Cletus agreed readily. "You got that from me." He grinned maniacally and howled like a coyote at a full moon.

Donnie was too upset to see that his father was simply having a cruel joke at his expense, and he ranted on, "Pa, we can't just let him suffer an' die!"

Cletus dropped all pretense of humor, then, not that Donnie noticed, and said disdainfully, "You got yerself a gun. Put a bullet in his head and make it quick and mercy-full."

"Pa, I, I couldn't. I couldn't never kill a man in cold blood."

"I know, Donnie," Cletus said in disgust. "Weakness ran in your ma's family just as much as stupid, but that's all right. I'd kinda like to watch him die slow, just for the hell of it."

Donnie opened his mouth to speak several times, but couldn't find the words to respond to his father's cruel suggestions. Finally, to the sound of Cletus' mocking laughter, he just hung his head and crossed the room to place a fresh, cool cloth on Steve's forehead.

_Sloans' Deck_

Out in the hall, Ron continued barking orders. "Detective Banks, find a judge and get a warrant for that boy's academic and medical records. If the DA offers a deal based on the Jeremy's weak mental faculties, he's gonna need documentation to justify it."

"Right!" Cheryl gave a brisk nod and she was off.

"Dr. Sloan, as many criminals as you have put away, I am sure there is at least one person in the DA's office who owes you a favor. If that kid really did kill Rico Alonso we can cut Tucker loose and get him to help us find Steve."

Mark nodded. "I'll call Neil Burnside. All I have to do is say 'Carter Sweeney', and he'll have someone here within the hour."

Ron grinned as the old man walked away. He knew Dr. Sloan generally shunned the use if his considerable influence and hated trading favors, preferring instead to rely on his natural charm and intelligence, but he also knew the elderly doctor treasured his only son above all else and would do anything to get him back safely.

"What about me?" Jesse piped up.

"Amanda," Ron said, ignoring the eager young doctor for the moment, "get them some coffee, a soda for Jeremy, maybe even some sandwiches and cookies. Ask a uniform to scare up a coloring book and some crayons for the kid or something." She frowned as if she was about to protest the menial assignment, but Ron explained his reasoning before she could say anything. "They're scared right now, Amanda, and more cops will only frighten them worse. You are calm and kind and patient. I am counting on you to make them feel comfortable and to keep them from leaving. Tell them we're working on a deal right now, but we need them to give us enough time to consult with the DA."

"Ok," Amanda nodded. "Just let me call my sitter and tell her I'll be here a while."

Turning to Jesse, Ron rolled his eyes heavenward in a quick plea for patience. For all his puppy-like exuberance and boyish charm, the young man was unusually observant and more insightful than one would expect from a person his age, and it was precisely those qualities, as well as Jesse's medical knowledge, that he needed right now.

"Dr. Travis, I need you to go back into the observation room and watch Jeremy." The young man's eager grin slipped into a disappointed pout as he thought he was being dismissed and put out of the way, but just as he did with Amanda, Ron made it clear that he was giving the young man a vital job to do. "We don't have time to wait for Detective Banks to come back with Jeremy's records, so I will be counting on your assessment to help me advise the DA in writing an immunity agreement or a plea bargain. I particularly need to know if he is capable of malice aforethought, whether he could plan and execute a murder, and especially if he understands that death is permanent and killing someone is wrong. Also, if you think he had been coached in any way, or if any of his behavior seems phony to you, I need to know. Do you understand?"

Jesse was grinning again, and he nodded, "Sure. Can you get me a pad and pencil to take some notes?"

"I'll have someone bring it in to you," Ron said. "Meanwhile, I'm going to speak to Victor Stalling and find out why he happened to overlook the fact that his son had as much reason to kill Rico as our boy Tucker did."

_Sloans' Deck_

Steve opened his eyes on a soft white light shining in the darkness, and briefly wondered if he had died. Then the edges of the cabin door took shape, and he could see the sun shining on the porch outside. He closed his eyes and tried to convince himself that he was glad to be alive. As he contemplated the benefits of letting himself slip into oblivion for good this time, he could hear Donnie and Cletus conversing somewhere in the room.

"Pa, how are we gonna get Tucker back if we can't use the cop?"

"Hell, I don't know. Now, quit pesterin' me with your damned fool questions!"

"But, Pa, I know Tucker couldn't a kilt that boy, he just doesn't have it in him."

"I wouldn't a thought so either, but you heard what they been sayin'. That boy died just like Tucker said he would in that letter he wrote. There ain't no way we can get him away from the police now. He's old enough to understand the price of gettin' caught, so I reckon he'll just have to take his punishment like a man. 'Course it wouldn't surprise me none if he started cryin' and beggin' for mercy 'cause he does have that weakness you got from your ma in him."

Hearing the desperation in Donnie's voice and the indifference when Cletus spoke, Steve wanted to call out some encouragement to Donnie, to point out that the quality Cletus called weakness was something most people called humanity. He needed to win the younger Baxter as an ally, but he was too weak to open his eyes once more and banish the darkness, let alone shout across the room.

"But Pa, we got to do somethin'! Tucker's my son!"

"Oh, I plan to do somethin', idjit. I plan to go out on the porch and sit right there sippin' my whiskey an' enjoyin' this fine evenin'. It's due to storm again soon, prob'ly tomorrow night. Yer cop'll be dead of blood poisonin' by then, so I'll just dump his body somewhere for the critters and the creepy crawlers to pick clean, and then I'll take the truck and head down to Mexico, find me a señorita to have fun with for a while, an' come back in a year or so when the heat's off."

"But what about Tucker?"

There was a meanness in Cletus' voice the likes of which Steve had never heard when he replied, "I done told you when you took up with his addle-brained, drug whore of a mother that you was a-lookin' for trouble. Now you've gone and found it, an' I just lost interest in helpin' you solve yer problems."

Donnie made an anguished sound, and Steve heard something shatter on the floor. Cletus cursed loudly, and there was the sound of a fist meeting flesh, followed by the thump of a body hitting the floor. Someone walked out, Steve recognized the smell of whiskey and wondered which of the Baxters had broken the jug as he fell asleep to the sound of Donnie's crying.

_Sloans' Deck_

It was nearly five o'clock when Mark, Jesse, Ron, and Cheryl reconvened in a conference room at the precinct. Joining them was Assistant District Attorney Sara Meyer. Amanda had stayed with Jeremy and his mother and lawyer, but she was just a few doors away, so if they needed her input, she could easily join them.

"Ok, I guess I'll start," Ron began. "As it turns out, despite what the school paperwork says, Victor Stalling, the principal of Southgate High, isn't Jeremy's father after all. He is, however Lydia's ex-husband, and he was married to her when Jeremy was born, but routine blood testing at birth revealed that it was biologically impossible for Jeremy to be Victor's son."

"I guess the blood types didn't match, huh?" Mark interjected.

"You can't be type O when one of your parents is AB," Ron said by way of confirmation. "He divorced his wife and had the court absolve him of all parental responsibilities by the time Jeremy was a year old. Lydia has been raising him on her own ever since."

"What about the biological father?" Sara asked.

"She couldn't sue him for support because she didn't know his name," Ron explained. "He was, in Victor's words, 'a fling she had on spring break in Cabo San Lucas' while he was doing his teaching internship. Victor claims he might have been able to forgive the infidelity, but he couldn't bear, and again I quote, 'the idea of that freak calling me Daddy'."

"You know," Jesse said thoughtfully, "as principal, Victor Stalling had the freedom to roam the school without suspicion. If he knew about the letter Tucker wrote, if he was that embarrassed by his connection to Jeremy, and if Rico had figured out their relationship, then he would have had a pretty good motive for killing Rico himself."

Sara frowned. "There are three if's in that theory we'd have to prove, Doctor, and it would still just be circumstantial evidence. That's pretty shaky stuff when we have a suspect waiting to confess just down the hall."

"It could be murder by proxy," Jesse suggested. "I know for a fact that it has happened before because I once had a crazy woman use me as the proxy."

"I suppose it could be possible, but it could also be that Tucker used the same information to frame Victor Stalling for using Jeremy to kill Rico," Ron countered.

Jesse shook his head adamantly. "Tucker isn't that smart."

"Whatever the case, we can look into it further after we get Jeremy's full story and get Steve back!" Mark interrupted desperately. "Right now we just need to work out an agreement that will get that lawyer to let the boy talk to us!"

Both Jesse and Ron hung their heads in embarrassment.

"Mark, I'm sorry," Jesse said.

"You're absolutely right," Ron agreed, and he went straight back to his report on what he had found out about Victor Stalling. "It's just coincidence that Jeremy attends the same school where Victor works. Jeremy has been there for three years, since he was sixteen, and since state law requires public schools to educate children until they graduate or turn twenty-one, his mother intends to keep him there another two years. Victor Stalling only arrived at Southgate last year when he completed the classes for his principal's certificate.

"Since then, Jeremy has been the focus of several vicious disagreements between Lydia and Victor. It seems she is a big fan of a concept called inclusion, which requires that children with special needs be placed in regular classes with their peers. They complete modified assignments and are graded on different criteria while they learn social skills from interacting with so-called normal kids. It's great in theory, but the way Stalling has put it into practice at Southgate, with as many as fifteen special needs students in a class of thirty academic underachievers taught by a novice teacher, it just turns in to a breeding ground for trouble, bullying, and failure."

Jesse nodded. "That fits in with what I observed," he said. "Jeremy has excellent social skills, a great sense of humor, and good manners, but his verbal and reasoning skills are extremely poor. I'm sure he was socially promoted because he's so much bigger than the average middle school kid."

"That's all very well and good, Doctor Travis, but is he capable of criminal intent or malice? Is he capable of executing a plan with the objective of ending a human life?" Sara demanded. "I need to know before I can even consider any kind of a deal."__

Jesse took a deep breath and gave his answer careful consideration. After a few moments, he shrugged his shoulders. "It's not as easy as yes and no. He knows the difference between right and wrong, and he knows it is wrong to hurt someone."

"So did he know what he was doing when he apparently beat Rico Alonso to death with a hammer or not?"

"Yes," Jesse said confidently, and then he got an apologetic look on his face and added hesitantly, "uh, and no?"

Sara sat back in her chair, arms folded, and did not look amused or patient. "Doctor Travis, I have been in court all day and I still have cases to prepare for tomorrow. From what I understand, you already have someone in custody for this murder, why are we here, anyway?"

"Because my son's life depends on it, dammit!" Mark shouted, slamming his fist on the table. He stood up and began pacing the small room. After several laps, he began speaking in a more reasonable tone. "Ms. Meyer, even if Tucker Baxter's relatives didn't have my son, I would want to hear what this young man had to say because it seems the wrong person is about to go on trial for murder. I just wouldn't have quite the same sense of urgency about it."

"Or the same willingness to cut corners, Doctor Sloan?"

Mark stopped pacing and stood ramrod straight, fixing Sara Meyer with a steely gaze that had more than once frightened hardened criminals into confessing. "Madam, I am no fool. I know every second we waste increases the jeopardy to my son, if he is still alive. I also know he could be dead already. If he survives this ordeal, and I choose to believe that he will, he would forgive me for using unethical means to save him, but he would never forgive himself for putting me in such a position. I will not place that kind of guilt on him, and I will not risk tarnishing his memory should we fail to get to him in time. I am not asking you to do anything inappropriate, I am just asking you to do something quickly. Find a way to convince Mr. Smith to let Jeremy talk to us. Please."

The room fell silent as Sara considered the worried father's impassioned plea for help. For several seconds, no one moved, then she hung her head and sighed. "Right, ok, we are going to make this happen in the next ten minutes."

As the room breathed a sigh of relief, she turned to Jesse and said, "Doctor Travis, do you think Jeremy Stalling is capable of planning and committing cold blooded murder?"

"Not a chance, he lacks the reasoning ability to work out a plan."

Sara began scribbling on a legal pad as she continued questioning Jesse. "Could he follow a plan that had been laid out for him?"

"Yes, I think so, he seems to be good at following specific instructions, but if that's what Tucker had in mind, why take the fall for it?"

"I'm not concerned with Tucker Baxter right now, Doctor, I just need to know how much Jeremy Stalling has on the ball and whether he is capable of killing someone. Do you think he could get angry enough to choose to kill the other boy when the opportunity presented itself, would he carry a grudge or would it have to be purely a crime of passion, with no decision-making required?"

"Ms. Meyer, he doesn't know what it means to kill someone, so I doubt he could make that choice. He doesn't comprehend death."

"The living rarely do, Doctor."

"You don't understand. He has no idea that death is permanent, that what he has done, if in fact he did kill Rico, is irreversible, and as for a grudge, his attention span isn't long enough to stay angry with anyone. He was asking if Rico would be back to school in time for his birthday. He wanted to bring cupcakes and didn't want him to be left out. Jeremy is a sweet kid with the mental age of two or three. In his mind, pounding the life out of someone with a hammer because he teases you relentlessly is no different than shoving him down because he takes your toys. He's not capable of evil, and while I am no lawyer, I doubt he could be found legally culpable of murder."

Sara nodded and looked to Cheryl. "When will we have the medical and school records to back this up?"

"First thing tomorrow. I would have had them today, but the offices were closed by the time I got the warrants."

Turning to Ron, Sara said, "A child is dead, Agent Wagner. He died violently, in a school, the one place where we as a society should have been able to guarantee his safety. My boss won't let me just make this go away."

"I know, but I also know Neil Burnside, and seeing as how it is not an election year, even he would understand that it is simply wrong to prosecute this boy for a capital crime."

Sara finally smiled. "You do know Neil, don't you? Ok, look, Burnside's gonna hate losing a slam dunk first degree homicide, but he gave me full authority to make the deal, and I happen to agree with you."

"So what are your terms?" Mark demanded anxiously.

"He pleads guilty to a reduced charge of involuntary manslaughter, no jail time, probation to be determined by the judge," Sara began writing as she spoke. "He is pulled from regular classes and placed in a self-contained class with a full-time aide trained in dealing with violent clients who escorts him everywhere, including the bathroom, locker room, and gym showers, from the time he leaves his home in the morning until he returns there at the end of the day, and he will be electronically monitored. After one year, he will be reevaluated by a court-appointed psychologist, and if he still has no concept of what he has done, shows no remorse for his actions, or doesn't seem to understand why it should never happen again, he will be placed in a state facility for the mentally handicapped. All of this is contingent upon school and medical records supporting Doctor Travis' observations and upon evidence and/or testimony supporting his story."

She finished the notes she had been jotting down, signed the paper with a flourish, and handed it to Ron. "You can take these terms to them now, and if someone will show me to a computer, I will have the full agreement written up and ready for signatures within the hour."

Mark snatched the document from Ron's hands and glanced over it quickly. Breaking into a smile, he looked at Sara and said, "Thank you, Ms. Meyer, for helping Tucker, and for helping my son."

"You're welcome, Doctor Sloan. Good luck, and Godspeed."

_Sloans' Deck_

Tucker sat in the visitor's room twiddling his thumbs and fidgeting nervously. It was after lights out, so something big had to be up for them to bring him down here. He didn't know what to think when Doctor Sloan showed up, so he just kept quiet and waited.

For several long minutes, they sat there, watching each other. The old man looked tired and worn, probably from worrying about his son, and Tucker idly wondered if his disappearance would have such an effect on his own father, and he decided his grandpa wouldn't care one way or the other beyond being glad to have a good excuse to raise hell.

Mark finally broke the silence. "Jeremy confessed."

Except for a slight widening of the eyes, Tucker gave no indication that the words meant anything to him.

"He told us about how the two of you discussed teaching Rico a lesson," Mark elaborated. "He told us what you wrote in your letter, how he managed to steal the hammer, get out of class, and kill Rico. We found his bloody clothes in the dumpster behind the gym, too. He's very hurt that you actually got mad at him when you found out what he had done. He thought he was doing you a favor."

"Yeah, well, Jeremy's an idjit," Tucker responded, trying to sound indifferent. He succeeded only in sounding like a very frightened child who was pretending he wasn't scared. "What d'you want?"

"Well, I only have three questions that Jeremy couldn't answer for me. I was hoping you could," Mark said.

"Oh, yeah, an' I even have three answers for you already. I . . . ain't . . . talkin'." Tucker's tone was disdainful, but his body language showed he was deeply concerned. Instead of adopting an arrogant and aloof posture, he sat hunched forward, head bowed, hands clasped between his knees.

Mark smiled. As long as he was patient and persistent, he would get the information he needed. "I think I'll just ask you anyway. Maybe once you hear what I want to know, you'll decide to answer me after all."

"Suit yourself," Tucker said with a shrug.

"Ok, first of all, why did Jeremy have a change of clothes in his locker and how did you know he had them?"

Tucker laughed slightly. "Like I told you, Jeremy's stupid. He still pisses his pants sometimes when he gets excited or scared, an' he slops himself up when he eats. His mom makes sure he always has a change of clothes, just in case. Everybody knows about it. The teachers are lucky he knows how to dress himself." After a thoughtful moment, Tucker added, "Funny thing is, he didn't wet himself that day."

"Maybe he wasn't excited or scared, he doesn't seem to understand that he did a bad thing."

"I don't think he does," Tucker agreed. "He's real dumb." Tucker gave his assessment of his classmate as a simple statement of fact, and Mark found himself liking the young man. He didn't look down on Jeremy because of his disability, he was just fully aware of the other boy's limited faculties and had no better way to express it.

"Well then, how did he sneak out of class and back in without Mr. Kennedy noticing?"

Tucker's disdain was real this time. "Mr. Kennedy's almost stupider than Jeremy," he said. "He's a new teacher an' he don't have a clue what happens in his class. The pencil sharpener is by the door. You get up to sharpen your pencil, an' when his back is turned, you go out into the hall. Sometimes I think he really doesn't notice, an' sometimes I think he is just glad to have a few of us gone. It's a big class with a lot of troublemakers, so I guess I can't blame him too much."

"Is that how you and Rico got out, too?" Mark asked, knowing that Mr. Kennedy and Southgate High School would soon be facing a huge civil lawsuit due to the new teacher's inattention to his students.

"Yeah. Piece of cake."

"Ok, Tucker, one more question. You could have just admitted to showing Jeremy the letter and then told everyone that he decided to kill Rico himself. Why did you take the blame for him?"

Tucker didn't move, but he did grow noticeably more tense. For the longest time he didn't say anything, and when he finally did look up to answer, there were tears in his eyes.

"I didn't want him to get in trouble," he said emphatically. "He didn't know no better, but I couldn't be sure his dad would believe that, an' if Mr. Stallin' wouldn't take his side, the police sure as hell wouldn't."

Deciding it wasn't his place to fill Tucker in on the situation with Jeremy and Victor Stalling, Mark asked instead, "What makes you think Mr. Stalling wouldn't take Jeremy's side?"

"'Cause he hates him almost as much as Grandpa hates Pa and me!"

The heated response took Mark aback. Not wanting to say the wrong thing, he elected to keep quiet. It took several minutes, but finally, Tucker filled the silence.

"I never seen him hit Jeremy, but he's always makin' fun of him, callin' him names an' laughin' at him an' stuff." Tucker paused briefly, debating whether to continue, and then he elaborated. "He hates everybody who's in the special classes, an' he tells us all the time how we pull test scores down an' slow down the normal kids an' make the school look bad, but it's worse with Jeremy. I guess he does it because it's embarrassin' for a principal to have a dumb kid."

"I suppose that might be true," Mark agreed neutrally, "but that's no excuse for anyone to treat you badly."

"I know!" Tucker insisted angrily, "but what can you do when everybody knows the principal already hates you an' will _look_ for trouble to blame on you? I can't tell my dad, 'cause he's scared to go to the school board an' complain, an' I can't tell my grandpa 'cause he'd probably beat someone up or hit me for not bein' able to stick up for myself."

The tears Tucker had been holding back for so long finally slid down his cheeks. Mark reached out and squeezed him on the shoulder as he would have done when Steve was a boy and said, "Well, now you have told me, and I am not afraid to do something about it, and I won't start a fist fight, ok?"

Sniffling, Tucker nodded. "Ok . . . Wh-what's gonna happen to Jeremy? Is he gonna go to jail like me?" Becoming suddenly more tearful, he added, "You know if he does, they'll kill him!"

Not sure whether the boy was talking about the courts or the other inmates, Mark said, "No, he's not going to jail. The police figured out for themselves that he didn't really understand what he was doing."

Tucker nodded. "That's good."

Mark smiled at the boy. "You're not staying here either, you know."

"Really? Where are they takin' me?"

"I spoke with the police and social services, and you're coming home with me."

Tucker's eyes grew wide. "But I . . . I don't know where they're keepin' your son!"

Mark gave the frightened youth his kindest smile and spoke gently, "I know, Tucker. It's ok. I'm hoping you might be able to help somehow, but even if I knew you couldn't, well, you don't belong in jail, and it's not always easy to find someone to take a young person in on such short notice."

"But it's my fault he got took!"

Mark shook his head, "No, that's your dad and your grandpa's fault. I don't hold it against you."

"Nah, if you look at it that way, it's all Grandpa's fault. Pa's too afraid to do anythin' about anythin'. You just wait, you'll find out Grandpa scared him into doin' it."

"Well, we'll wait to sort that out once my son comes home, ok?"

Tucker nodded and after a moment, Mark asked, "So, are you ready to go?"

Tucker nodded again and stood up. "As long as you don't tell my grandpa what I done."

"Tucker, why on earth not?" Mark asked in surprise. "You might have done the wrong thing, but you did it for the right reason. You were helping a friend who couldn't help himself. That's something to be proud of."

"Not to my grandpa. He'd call me stupid for riskin' my neck for someone else, an' he'd beat me for all the trouble I caused him."

"Ok, Tucker, I won't tell him," Mark said, feeling saddened that the young man would fear punishment for protecting a friend.

_Sloans' Deck_

Gentle hands placed a cool cloth on Steve's hot forehead. He sighed with relief then tensed as he heard Donnie's tearful voice whispering to him.

"I hate that mean old son of a bitch! I don't know if you can hear me, but I want you to know that, no matter what he says, I'm gonna get you back to your pa before it's too late. He doesn't think I got it in me to kill him, but so help me God, if that's what it takes, I'll do it!"

Steve was so feverish that he didn't know whether he actually told Donnie not to kill his father, but he knew he wanted to.


	8. Out With a Bang

**Chapter Eight: Out With a Bang **

"Is the air too cool for you?" Mark asked the question of his young passenger as he reached toward the air conditioner controls and decreased the blower's intensity. He thought that he'd seen the young man suppress a shudder.

"No. It's fine." Tucker barely glanced in at him before returning his gaze toward passing scenery. Since they had left the lock up, the teen had fallen into silence, only answering Mark's questions with as few words as possible. Mark was at a loss to understand what the trouble was. Back at the facility he had been certain that he'd seen a tentative hope in the young man's eyes; he'd really thought that he had gotten through to him.

"Let me know if it gets too warm, and I'll turn it back up," Mark offered, not wanting to push too hard, but feeling an almost desperate need to keep the line of communication open.

"Okay." Tucker responded, not bothering to turn away from the window this time, utterly oblivious to the effect his lack of cooperation was having.

Mark struggled with the anxiety that ate at him bit by bit. Every moment that passed seemed to increase the urgency that he felt deep within his bones. He needed to be doing something to find Steve. That had been his entire focus since the moment the Baxters had snatched his only son.

And now, he had done as the old man had asked. He had cleared Tucker Baxter, and rightfully so. But the fact of the matter was that he still didn't have Steve back.

He hadn't lied to Tucker -- he hadn't offered to take him in just so that he might help with locating Steve. But that didn't mean that he didn't have hope that he might have some small piece of knowledge that might be the breakthrough that they needed. But Tucker didn't seem willing to cooperate, and Mark found himself in a position that he was unused to. He had no idea what he was supposed to do next.

He continued to steer his car along Pacific Coast Highway, his mind running in circles. The chess board was laid out and the players were all in position, but he didn't know how to make his next move. Somewhere along the line he had lost touch with the rules.

Rules.

The rules . . . .

An inkling of an idea tickled at the back of his mind and he felt the beginnings of renewed hope. Stifling inner excitement, he looked again toward the younger Baxter. "Tucker, how would I get in touch with your father or grandfather?"

"I already told you, I don't know where to find them," was the boy's automatic reply.

"I remember you told me that," Mark replied, expecting that response. He then continued, "But your grandfather said I couldn't have my son back until I proved your innocence. How am I supposed to get the message to him that I've done as he asked?"

Tucker shot him a startled look. Mark thought he also caught an edge of fear before the young man's expression morphed into one of anger. "Look, I said I don't know! Why do you keep asking me? You think I'm lying?"

"I'm not accusing you of anything," Mark quickly tried to calm him, not wanting to lose ground. "I'm just worried for my son. Your father and grandfather were worried about you and that's why they took him. Now, I need to let them know that I've done as they've asked."

The look Tucker settled on him was completely devoid of emotion or caring; Mark knew when he was being blocked out. He pulled into the driveway of the beach house in silence.

_Sloans' Deck_

Tucker followed the old doctor up the steps to the big, expensive looking house on the beach. He tried to pretend that he wasn't awed by what he saw him around him, but it was hard to avoid. He only ever really saw the inside of places like this on television.

But Dr. Sloan hardly seemed to notice. He just led him inside, and then down a hallway near the front of the place. "The guest room is this way," he said over his shoulder as he walked ahead of Tucker.

Tucker only half listened as he explained something about towels. He did notice, though, that Dr. Sloan was just as distracted as he was. The edge of guilt that had been flowing at a low ebb since he had been sprung from lock-up drifted higher. The old doctor looked more tired than he had when he'd arrived earlier, almost defeated, like he knew he had a beating coming and that there was nothing he could do but take it.

He knew it was because he was worried about his son. And Tucker really did wish he could help. But he knew what his grandfather was like. If the cop was still anywhere near Cletus Baxter, he was either dead or halfway there. And Tucker just couldn't tell the old doctor that. Better he let him quietly forget about his son.

"There are . . . uh, a couple of things here that you could probably wear." Mark settled a small stack of garments on the edge of the bed. Sweat pants. Jeans. A few shirts. "Although they might be a little long. If it ends up that you're here for a while, we can pick up some things for you."

"You take in a lot of kids?" Tucker's curiosity got the better of him as he looked through the garments. They weren't exactly what he might call Dr. Sloan's style.

A ghost of a smile lit Mark's face. "No, not really. My son is more involved with helping at risk teens. Those belonged to one of the boys he mentored."

Tucker couldn't hide his surprise. He hadn't expected to hear that about the cop that he'd thought was like all the rest. Between what he heard around and the things that his grandfather said, it was hard to have a good opinion of the police. "What kinds of things does he do with them?" the question crept out.

"Dirt bike riding, sometimes working out at the gym, surfing." Mark shrugged.

It all sounded good to Tucker. He'd never had the opportunity to do a single one of the things Mark had mentioned. "He sounds like he was a good guy," Tucker said quietly.

"He is," Mark told him, emphasizing the present tense. "The best."

"Do you have any other children?" Tucker asked.

Mark shook his head and was quiet for a few moments. "I used to have a daughter. Steve and I lost her not very long ago." A frown settled on the old doctor's face. "I wasn't able to find her in time."

"Find her?" Tucker asked hesitantly. That had seemed a strange thing to say.

"She was murdered," Mark told him. "By another --" The doorbell interrupted the rest of what he might have said. He glanced toward the sound and then looked back at Tucker. "Why don't you get settled in and then come out when you're ready?"

Tucker nodded, but remained in the same spot for a long while. It hardly seemed right for a guy like the doc to lose both of his children so close together. His dad was right; no Baxter ever managed to do anything good, no matter how hard he tried.

_Sloans' Deck_

Heat, stickiness and a bone deep aching seemed to encompass every part of Steve's body. Even breathing had become an effort. It felt as if the overheated air that he labored to draw in and push out had somehow thickened making the action all the more exhausting. But along with the pain and the fever, determination to stay alive burned within him. So his chest continued to rise and fall and he struggled to organize the frazzled edges of his thoughts.

He became aware of a motion and then a buzzing near his ear. Monumental effort went into creaking hot eyelids open to investigate. Rancid breath and bulging eyes in a face far too close to his own startled his overtaxed body into a reactive jerk before he realized that it was Donnie Baxter and that the emotion in his eyes was part fear.

The brief rush of adrenaline sharpened his perceptions and he realized that the buzzing was really Donnie's low whispering. Something about getting to the truck while they still could.

Steve's eyes widened as the words registered. Ignoring the draining weakness, he turned his head and tried to get a look around the dim room. Cletus Baxter was laid out on the floor, the leg iron and chains that had originally been used on Steve, were now wrapped around Cletus' legs.

"He went too far this time. I couldn't let him do this," Donnie's voice reached him, explaining the situation. "I mean to do something right for a change. I snuck up and hit him when nature called from all that shine. He ain't gonna be out for long so we need to go. Now!"

Steve didn't hesitate, lest Donnie change his mind about betraying his father. "Help me up," he said, disgusted at the hoarse nothingness of his voice. He clamped down on the cry of agony when Donnie helped him to a sitting position. He gave the room the briefest moment to settle down before he started on the mountain-like journey to his feet.

The room tilted alarmingly. Steve grimaced as he struggled against the darkness that threatened to take him under, remaining on his feet only by sheer force of will and Donnie's supporting arm. He would not give in to the weakness. He couldn't. Not now.

_Sloans' Deck_

The smell of food registered and the sound of voices drew Tucker out of the guestroom and into the other parts of the beach house. He heard Dr. Sloan talking to a woman and another man before he rounded the corner into the kitchen and found a small crowd of people. Two men and two women.

The lady cop he remembered, even though he didn't remember her name. One of the men he knew was a doctor, but the other man, dressed in a suit, didn't look familiar at all, even though he had the look of law enforcement about him. The other woman looked at him and smiled.

"You must be Tucker Baxter," she said.

Tucker nodded, suddenly feeling shy with all of the adults looking at him. No one looked like they were suspicious of him, which was the biggest surprise, considering where he was.

"Well, I'm Amanda Bentley," the woman said, then gestured toward the other man that she didn't know. "And this is Ron Wagner. I think you know everyone else. We're all friends of Steve and Mark."

"It's . . . nice to meet you," Tucker said, feeling rusty at being polite. It wasn't often that the necessity came up in his life. Ron Wagner nodded a silent greeting, and the lady cop and the other doctor spoke as well. Tucker was really starting to feel bad about tearing up the hospital and causing so much trouble. He especially hated what was going to happen when they discovered that his grandfather had killed Steve Sloan. They would all be hurt, and none of them would want to have anything to do with him then. Why couldn't he think of something that might help? Why was he so stupid?

"We've brought some food," Amanda continued, interrupting his thoughts. "Why don't you help me clear off the table so we can have a place to put it?"

"Okay," Tucker agreed. It was the least he could do. He heard the background buzz of the others talking, sharing worries and updates while he followed Amanda into another room. It had big glass doors which opened out on a balcony that overlooked the ocean. The sun was beginning its descent.

"We should put all of these things into that box," Amanda said and gestured toward the cardboard container on the floor in the corner.

He turned back to the dining room table. It was covered with papers and folders and pictures. He began to stack them up and put them in the box as Amanda was doing. One item caught his eye. It was a photograph sitting in the center of the table. It was of him, his father and grandfather up in the woods near the cabin. He remembered the day that the picture had been taken vividly. It was one of the very few good days that he'd shared with his grandfather.

Amanda came around the table and looked at the picture with him.

"I shot a deer that day," he told her, remembering how proud Cletus Baxter had been.

Amanda grimaced slightly. "Did you go there with your father and grandfather a lot?"

"No," Tucker shook his head. "Not too much. It's pretty far away from everything. Most people can't even find it."

"Do you think your dad and granddad would take Steve there?" Amanda asked.

"Well, yeah, it's--" Tucker broke off, his eyes widened. "I can show you how to get there . . . " The words were barely out of his mouth before Amanda grabbed his hand and brought him back to the kitchen. She quickly explained that he knew where the cabin was.

Suddenly everyone was moving at once. The food was completely forgotten as the lady cop and the guy whose name was Ron both brought out cell phones. Mark began giving orders of things that should be gathered; Amanda and Dr. Travis hurried off to get them. Tucker himself was charged with gathering bottles of water from the cupboard.

Within minutes they were all bundled into an SUV and Tucker became the center of attention as Ron, who he discovered was an FBI agent, began to coordinate a helicopter, the forest service and the Dinuba county sheriff's office. As he looked at the map that was shoved into his hands and recognized the familiar landforms, all he could think was that maybe, for once, a Baxter could do something right.

_Sloans' Deck_

They were almost to the door when Donnie heard the sounds that he'd feared. His father was coming around. They quickened their pace and made it another few steps before that hated, rage-filled voice filled the room. "Where do you think you're goin', boy!"

Donnie halted in his tracks - he couldn't help it. He'd been obeying the old man all of his life. It was second nature to him. But then, after a quick glance at his wavering co-conspirator, he reached for the handle and opened the door. Sloan didn't have much left in him and he meant to get him back to his pa. All they had to do was step on outside. He'd work out what to do about his own father later. The old man wasn't going to take kindly to being hit over the head and chained.

"I said, stop right there!" The chain rustled as Cletus moved around on the floor. "Or I'll drop ya where ya stand!"

He stopped. The sound of a rifle being cocked sent a cold shiver of fear down Donnie's spine as the unwelcome memory of setting the rifle on the floor when he'd went to wake up Sloan washed through his mind. He'd left it there when he'd helped the other man to his feet. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He should have moved it farther away. But at least he could still feel the reassuring weight of Sloan's gun and holster strapped onto his jeans.

"Now, turn 'round and take yer punishment like a man!" Cletus' biting words sounded in the tense silence of the room.

He shot another look toward Sloan, who looked more alert than he had in a long time. With slight acknowledgement in clear blue eyes, they turned slowly as one to face the old man. Half way around, several things happened at once.

He felt as Sloan grabbed the gun from the holster at his side. He saw the intent in his father's eyes as he made the small movement and directed the gun toward Steve, ready to pull the trigger. Instinctively, he shoved his body's weight into the cop's side, seeking to push him out of harm's way.

Two loud, reverberating bangs sounded in the room. He saw the shock that lit his father's face as a bullet slammed into him. He figured that it mirrored his own as the pain began to blossom in his side. Suddenly, his legs went weak. He barely had time to register his father's final collapse, or the faint, vaguely familiar beating whir before the world faded to black.


	9. Fathers and Sons

**Chapter Nine: Fathers and Sons**

They had been traveling for some time and although it was unnecessary, Ron held up one hand to indicate quiet and then pressed the other to the earphone that resided in his ear. He knew several pairs of eyes were on him, but as he finished listening, he focused on the worried blue ones of Mark Sloan.

"They think they have located the cabin, the pickup you described is parked out front."

"Did they see Steve?"

The question more resembled a prayer and Ron wished he could answer positively. In a move that was both awkward and rare for him he reached over the seat and briefly touched the doctor on the arm. "They didn't see anyone, but they only did the one fly over, they are looking for a place to land . . . " Ron stopped as his earpiece crackled to life again.

"The closest open area is at the end of the road we have to turn down, they are going to land there and wait for us," Ron informed the concerned group. "Step on it," Ron instructed the driver. "I'll tell you where to go."

_Sloans' Deck_

Steve had somehow remained conscious, he didn't really know how; his body was so consumed by pain it blocked out everything else. He willed himself to take slow breaths and eventually the pain became easier to manage, it was still there and under other circumstances it would have been debilitating, but he knew that if he wanted to survive he had to overcome it. He reached trembling fingers towards Donnie's neck and felt the beating pulse. He was relieved; Donnie had tried to help him and had in all probability just saved his life. His attention was then drawn back to the area of the cabin that had been his home.

"I see ya movin boy, and I'ma coming to finish the job, just as soon as I get myself free of this chain," Cletus cackled. Another gunshot then reverberated through the cabin and Steve heard the chain clatter.

Using the small amount of strength that remained in his battered and abused body Steve slid out from under Donnie and scooted on his bottom till his back rested against the frame of the door then using long tired leg muscles, started pushing himself upright. He was aware of Cletus struggling to reload the shotgun and knew his time was limited. Steve heard the snap of the barrel closing at the same time as he heard the snap of a piece of wood as a car wheel drove over it.

_Sloans' Deck_

The rest of the journey in the SUV had been tense. Mark had perched on the edge of the seat with Amanda's comforting hand on his back. Jesse, who was occupying the cramped confines of the back seat with Tucker, had seen the boy's eyes lock on Mark and could have sworn he saw tears welling up in them.

"Tucker, what's wrong?" He questioned softly.

The question and the compassionate tone of the voice had startled Tucker. No one had ever cared enough to ask him that question and in such a kind manner. He dropped his head and using the back of his hand wiped at the tears that had gathered in his eyes. Leaning closely so that no one else could hear he whispered a response that caused Jesse to suppress a gasp.

"I know my grandpa, he ain't got no love for cops, I'm afraid he has already killed the doc's son," he whispered with a shrug towards Mark. "He seems like a real good guy and I think he really woulda helped me without what my pa and grandpa did."

Jesse settled back into his seat and found his eyes straying to the figure that was hunched over and peering intently through the front window of the vehicle, it was then he saw the outline of the building coming into view. He barely heard Ron's instructions for them to stay put until he had secured the scene; he was too intent on seeing some sign of his best friend.

_Sloans' Deck_

Through pain blurred eyes that were further clouded by sweat he braced himself against the door and using both hands tried to steady his gun and focus on the man who was raising the shotgun towards him. He hesitated as the man wavered and looked as if he might fall over, but in that moment Steve knew it had been a ruse, the cagey old hunter was using the fact that Steve played by the rules against him and with a cackle he quickly squeezed the trigger.

_Sloans' Deck_

Ron might as well have spoken to himself, his orders were completely disregarded, in fact Mark had not even allowed the vehicle to stop before he flung his door open and jumped out. His progress was soon halted by the muffled sound of a shotgun retort. He froze in place listening for some sound that would tell him if the shooter had hit his target. After a brief silence an answering shot was heard, and this one propelled Ron into action, it had definitely been a handgun and he would bet it was police issue.

"Stay here," he called as he and the agent who had been driving moved towards the cabin. As he made his way forward the rustling behind him told him he had once again been ignored. He glanced over his shoulder to see Mark, with Amanda tight at his side and Jesse and Tucker slightly behind him. Doctor Travis seemed to have a comforting hand on Tucker's arm and much to Ron's amazement the boy seemed to appreciate it. Those thoughts had passed quickly and were forgotten as he looked towards the cabin and saw a struggling figure stumbling towards him dragging another body. It took a second glance for it to register that the bedraggled and bloodied man was Steve Sloan.

_Sloans' Deck_

As the wood in the door by Steve's head had exploded he paused only briefly before he pulled the trigger on his gun and was rewarded by the sickening thud as the bullet hit its mark. Cletus gripped the gun tighter for a moment before it fell from dying fingers; he then stumbled and fell to his knees. He looked up at Steve and blinked heavily, disbelief etched on his face.

"Kilt by a city slicker cop and betrayed by my own flesh 'n' blood, but I can die happy knowing my good for nothing boy is dead. See ya in hell, Sloan." As he spat out those last words, he dropped to one side and was gone.

Realizing that finally the old coot was dead Steve grabbed Donnie under the arms as best he could, moved from the door and towards the pickup. He had gone but a few steps when the voice he had thought he would never hear again spoke his name. It was deepened by emotion and had cracked, but it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.

_Sloans' Deck_

Ron was practically shoved out of the way as Mark Sloan caught sight of his son. He called his name and ran, reaching him just as the last of the adrenaline that had been driving him left his body. Steve collapsed against his father, but not before giving him the gift of a smile.

Mark went to the ground with Steve and cradled him in his arms. He was completely unaware of the activity as Ron set about securing the cabin and the scene. Jesse had gone back to the vehicle for medical supplies and Tucker had dropped to his knees beside his father and shocked even himself when he reached out and took his father's hand.

"Pa, it's me, Tucker, kin you hear me?" He questioned quietly. The hand he was holding twitched slightly and Donnie's eyes opened.

"I hear ya, boy," he responded gruffly, and then after a brief pause, "I'm glad yer here."

"Tucker, I need to check on your dad," Amanda requested softly.

Jesse had set about evaluating Steve, it was obvious he had not been treated kindly, but the most serious by far was the gunshot wound. There was significant bruising on his throat and for a moment Jesse lost his concentration as his tried to figure out what might have caused the damage, he was pulled back from his thoughts by a groan from his patient.

"Steve, can you hear me? Come on, open your eyes."

"Steve, Son, please, I need to know that you can hear us."

That had done it; the sound of his father's voice pleading with him had caused the blue eyes to flutter open. "Dad," he forced out through his damaged larynx. "Glad you're here, missed you." He had then once again succumbed to his raging fever and injuries.

Mark had turned eyes drenched with tears up to Ron. "We have to get him to the hospital."

Ron laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, "I know, another helicopter is en route, they are going to lower a Stokes so we can get both of them out of here, the other 'copter is already waiting out by the main road, it will transport you to Community General as soon as he has been lifted out. Doctor Travis they have room for you if you want to ride along with Steve."

Jesse nodded distractedly as he continued to evaluate his patient, he was not happy with his breathing or his erratic heart rate. "Fine, whatever it takes."

The thumping of rotor blades announced the arrival of a large helicopter and within moments a basket had appeared over the side and was descending towards the ground. While Jesse continued to work on Steve, Amanda, with Ron and the other agents, helped load a stabilized Donnie into the basket and watched as he rose and then disappeared over the side of the chopper. When the basket landed again they very gently moved Steve into it and it was only then that Mark released the hand he had been holding since they had arrived. As soon as the basket reached the 'copter a second time a harness was lowered and Jesse was strapped in and made the journey up and inside the craft which then quickly banked and headed towards the hospital.

As Mark looked up he felt someone come stand beside him and turned and found Tucker gazing at him with sad eyes. "Come on, Son; let's go meet them at the hospital." He then wrapped a fatherly arm around the young man's shoulders and unknowingly changed the boy's future with that simple gesture.

_Sloans' Deck_

There were those smells again, not as bad as they usually were; they actually smelled a little cleaner than normal, almost like an antiseptic and the floor seemed to be a little softer, maybe he was finally getting used to things. His silent appraisal of his surroundings was interrupted by a loud bang and he sat bolt upright. His reaction had startled everyone in the room, but none more than the young aide that had knocked over the tray table as she had emptied the garbage. As the initial shock wore off Steve felt the pain roar through his body like an angry wind and then gentle hands were helping him to lie back down. The hands were accompanied by the soft voices of his father and friends and he relaxed knowing that he was safe.

_Sloans' Deck_

It was sometime later when Steve rejoined the conscious world again. He opened his eyes and observed the three individuals that were sprawled in different areas of the room. A small smile touched his lips and as he became more aware of his surroundings he felt the warmth of a hand encircling his. He moved his fingers slightly and soon found himself the focus of his father's eyes.

"Welcome back," Mark offered quietly.

Steve's first attempt at a response was unsuccessful. His damaged throat, combined with the dryness that accompanied anesthesia, made him unable to speak. Mark quickly offered him some ice chips which helped to relieve some of the discomfort.

"Thanks, are you alright?" Steve croaked.

Their conversation had roused the others and Amanda and Jesse had drawn near the bed to stand beside Mark. Amanda offered a sleepy but bright smile and Jesse a lopsided boyish grin.

Their arrival had given Mark a moment to recover. Steve's inquiry as to his well being had stuck a chord. The control he had been maintaining through this entire ordeal had nearly crumbled. That Steve would be more concerned for him was overwhelming especially after what he had just endured. He clasped trembling hands and fought to take charge of his feelings once again. If he thought his battle had gone unnoticed he was wrong. Steve had watched the emotions play across his father's face, had seen him struggle to appear calm. His long fingers reached out and covered those trembling hands, and he had offered him a smile. Mark smiled back and felt the black cloud lifting away. He had his son back and that was all that mattered.

_Sloans' Deck_

Steve had finally convinced his dad, Jesse and Amanda to go home. He knew they were all exhausted and truth be told they had been smothering him. He needed some time alone to come to terms with everything that had happened. Those who didn't know him well might have thought that his mind was preoccupied with visions of his captivity, but in reality his thoughts were filled with images of arresting a young boy for a murder he didn't commit. He was once again reviewing the evidence in his head when he heard a hesitant knock at the door.

"Come in," Steve called huskily.

The door was pushed open to reveal a tousled haired boy with a face full of freckles.

"Tucker, come on in," Steve greeted.

Tucker stood half way in the door and half way out, his hands were now shoved in the front pockets of his jeans and he scuffed the floor with the toe of his sneaker.

"I wuz hopin' maybe you would feel up to talkin' a bit," the boy stated quietly.

Steve smiled. "Sure, please, come on in," he offered again.

A small smile touched Tucker's face as he moved into the room and sat in the chair by Steve's bed.

"How's your dad?" Steve inquired.

"That lady doctor, the purty one, she says he's gonna be just fine," Tucker responded. "How long you suppose they'll keep him in jail fer?"

"Tucker, if I have anything to do with it your father won't serve any jail time, he saved my life, and it's the least I can do after falsely arresting you."

"You and your Pa sure do like to run on with the sentences don't ya?"

Steve chuckled, he had been accused of lots of things in his life, but being overly talkative wasn't one of them.

"But that thing about Pa not going to jail, that would be real nice, he really isn't a bad feller, Grandpa just bullied him into things."

"I know that, Tucker, and I want to help both of you, just as soon as I get back on my feet."

Tucker offered another shy smile. "Your Pa says you sometimes help out kids, why would you do something like that?"

A frown creased Steve's brow, no one had ever really asked him that before, he wasn't sure if he could put it into words. "I guess the best way to describe it would be to ask you a question, Tucker."

"Asking me a question is gonna tell me why you do things with kids?" Tucker asked quizzically.

"Yes, it will," Steve responded. "Do you think your father's life could have gone differently if someone had taken an interest in him, and he had gotten away from your grandfather?"

Tucker sat for a moment considering the question before answering. "Yep, I suppose it woulda, he always said he wanted to work on cars, he has a real intrest in that kinda stuff."

Steve filed that little nugget away for later when Donnie was better and looking for work. "Ok, I have another question."

"Ok, I'm ready fer it," Tucker responded with another smile.

"Do you think your life could be different than that of your father and grandfather?"

Tucker practically beamed and his response was immediate. "Yes, Sir, I do, I might'n not thought that before but I do now, your Pa showed me that my life can be different. Even after ever'thing that grandpa had done to you he was as kind to me as iffin I was his own."

"Then you just answered your own question, Tucker. That is why I do it, some of these kids are headed down the wrong path, and if me or anyone showing an interest or caring about them stops that then it is well worth it."

"I guess I better let you get back to yer restin', do you suppose when you git to feelin' better you could teach me to box?"

"Tucker, I would love to do that," Steve said with a smile.

The smile Tucker offered in return completely altered his features. Steve had always thought he looked a little old for his age, but his face now glowed with a boyish exuberance that made Steve wonder if maybe it was his first smile of pure joy. He had then offered a shy wave and left.

_Sloans' Deck_

Night's shadows had darkened the room as Steve lay dozing in bed. The door was pushed open and a sliver of light shone across his face. Without even opening his eyes, he smiled and spoke. "Hi, Dad."

"And what makes you think it's me?" Mark answered back with a chuckle.

"Son's intuition."

"I thought that was father's intuition?"

"It is, but sons can have it too!"

Mark smiled as he moved and sat down beside the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"You know, Dad, I'm feeling pretty good."

Mark nodded his understanding. "I understand you had a visitor."

"How did you hear that? No wait I know, let me guess, is Tucker staying at the beach house until Donnie is better?"

"Why yes he is."

"When did that happen?"

"Well actually it happened while you were still missing, but then after he was sure his dad was going to be ok, Ron brought him back out today."

"Ron? The poster boy for FBI intimidation was chauffeuring a kid around? How in the world did you manage that?"

Mark laughed as he responded. "Actually I had nothing to do with it, Amanda arranged it."

"Oh, I see," Steve responded. "She sure can make him toe the line. But then I guess she does that with all of us."

"That she does and the sad thing is we don't even know it most of the time," Mark added.

As their chuckles died away Steve reached for his father's hand and gave it a brief squeeze. "Thank you."

"Thank me? For what?" Mark asked with a perplexed expression.

"For not giving up on me, for covering my tail on the case, for finding me and most of all for being my dad and loving me."

_The End_

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_Authors' Note: This is the first of two stories written from the same starter. Watch for Version two, coming soon from The Sloans' Deck Writing Group._


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